


You Mean Everything To Me

by seedofstephano



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-27
Updated: 2013-10-05
Packaged: 2017-12-21 12:49:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 28,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/900514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seedofstephano/pseuds/seedofstephano
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My collection of Les Mis one shots and drabbles, mostly concerning Éponine and Feuilly's relationship. (Title will probably change)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Meetings

Feuilly was not having a good day.

He had overslept that morning, which made him late to work (which he really couldn’t afford to be) he didn’t have time to eat breakfast, so he was really hungry, he left his jacket at home and he was seriously freezing, and all he really wanted to do was curl up on his couch and sleep. But, of course, he couldn’t because there was another meeting tonight.  
Feuilly sighed, pushing open the doors to the Musain, really hoping that tonight would just be a peaceful meeting. He shook off some of the snow that had just started falling and then froze. 

He had just stumbled upon one of the most beautiful girls he’d ever seen.

Now, Musichetta and Cosette came often enough (it was rare that they weren’t at a meeting), but this girl was just stunning. 

She had long black hair, tan skin, and, as far as he could tell, brown eyes. She was wearing worn down jeans, an oversized sweatshirt, dirty sneakers, and tons of bracelets. She seemed to be sticking close to Marius, but she was talking to Musichetta and Cosette with a small, hesitant smile on her face.

Feuilly didn’t know who she was but, God, did he want to. 

“Dude, the meeting’s already started!” Bahorel shouted, snapping him out of his trance. Feuilly ran a hand through his already messy hair and attempted to walk casually to the little corner where they claimed every week.

It doesn’t work.

Feuilly just so happens to completely miss the one empty coffee cup in his way. So, of course, he ends up tripping and landing on his face, earning laughter from Bahorel, Courfeyrac, Bossuet, and Grantaire, concerned questions from Joly, Jehan, and Cosette, and strange looks from Éponine and Enjolras. They rest of them were trying to look concerned while stifling their giggles.

He groaned internally. 

No, it was definitely not Feuilly’s day.


	2. The Observant Doctor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feuilly's an idiot and Joly's observant.

A few weeks go by, and Feuilly starts seeing Éponine come to more and more meetings. He actually gets the courage to talk to her and she gets more comfortable with the group, smiling and laughing easier. He gets to know a lot about her. For example, he knows that she takes care of her little brother Gavroche, her favorite color is orange, she absolutely adores puns, and she gets awful migraines.

Éponine shares her opinion more and more in the meetings and Feuilly will often listen to her heated discussions with Jehan or Musichetta. He loves hearing anything she has to say—it might just be him, but she can draw attention just as well as Enjolras. He’s becoming more and more fascinated with her and they’re becoming better and better friends.

So of course Feuilly’s clumsiness acts up even more.

It was really bad for a while, when he first started talking to her, but it had gotten better. But every now and then he’ll see something truly amazing—like her laugh or watching her give Gavroche a piggy back—and he’ll just trip over thin air. Because of this, he’s had many scraped knees and elbows, and, in one unfortunate occasion, even a broken nose.

Joly, of course, was the one to patch Feuilly up. So it didn’t take Joly long to realize that Feuilly liked Éponine. He had his suspicions for a while, but after careful observation (he _is_ studying to become a doctor, after all), it was obvious. He thinks about asking Combeferre if he’d noticed anything different about Feuilly, but he decided against it—he’d respect his friend’s privacy.

But sometimes his friends could be such _idiots_.

It had been weeks and Joly had seen Feuilly come to him with more scraped knees and apparently no sign that he and Éponine had done anything just the two of them. Enough was enough, he decided. So after one meeting when Éponine left to go pick up Gavroche from soccer, Joly grabs Feuilly by the arm, pulling him away from his conversation with Courfeyrac and Bahorel, and drags him to a separate table.

“Dude, I didn’t get to hear the punch line! Now I’ll never kn—”

“Have you asked her out yet?” Joly questions impatiently.

Feuilly blinks. “Ah, asked who out yet?” he says slowly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Don’t try to play dumb with me. Have you asked Éponine out yet?” the doctor inquired, tapping his foot.

Feuilly deflated. “Ah, you see about that…Um, I haven’t really gotten around to the whole… asking her part of the equation,” he mumbled, not meeting Joly’s eyes.

“Feuilly, I swear, if you don’t ask her out I might just kill you.” Joly shook his head and then walked off.

Feuilly sighed, sitting down on the ground. “How the hell am I supposed to manage this?” he muttered to himself, covering his face with his hands.


	3. Éponine's Thoughts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Okay. So, answer this: are you and Grantaire dating?”
> 
> Éponine nearly chokes on her drink before laughing. “What? Are you two serious? Me and R? Hell no!” she exclaimed, still laughing.

Éponine really, really liked the students’ meetings. Ever since she followed Marius to a meeting, she’d fallen in love. Because what wasn’t there to love about a group where groups of college kids debated over different political problems?

She really adored all of the members, but she became especially close to Grantaire. He was one of the few who didn’t try to introduce themselves to her when she first arrived. It was strange, she thought, how he came to every meeting but didn’t seem to agree with anything they did. (“I don’t believe in anything,” he scoffed to her, and she shrugged, not noticing how he quickly glanced at Enjolras).

One night once the meeting was finished, after a particular bad night where Éponine came across her father in the streets (she spent all of her teenage years trying to get away from them), she drank with Grantaire.

Or, she should say, she got _drunk_ with Grantaire.

She didn’t really know how it started—she tended to stay away from heavy amounts of alcohol for her own piece of mind; she was not going to lose her rights as Gavroche’s guardian over some drink—but the next thing she knew it was nearing 1 o’clock in the morning, and she was _wasted_.

“God, I hate parents,” she told him, after a long sip from a beer bottle. Grantaire just snorted at her. “No, seriously. I mean, they spend the first part of your life caring for you—making sure you’re fed and clothed and shit like that—and then,” she paused, “nothing.”

The curly haired man took a long look at her before nodding and finishing his own drink. “I feel you there. Parents can really fuck you over,” he says solemnly. “So can gods,” he mutters softly after a moment.

Éponine looks at Grantaire closely. Suddenly, she holds up her drink. “I like you,” she announces bluntly, before downing the rest in one go.

He shakes his head with a small smile on his face. “You’re not too bad yourself.”

 

\---

Ever since then, Grantaire and Éponine just connected. It became a habit for the group to see the pair talking closely to each other before meetings. Some of them questioned it, but most just let it be.

So, after a while, the two knew more about each other than the rest of the group knew about them. Éponine knew Grantaire loved Enjolras—a combination of her own observant skills and straight out asking him. He knew that she was trying to get over Marius—he was the only guy she really liked, and he was her best friend for the longest time. She knew that he had a passion for mythology—any type really. He knew that she wanted to become a teacher if she could ever get to school. She knew that Grantaire has a soft spot for good artwork and thinks his own is shitty (she disagrees entirely). He knows that Éponine wants Gavroche to have a better life than she did and that, because of her childhood, she hates anything that reminds her of the streets or being homeless.

They knew each other’s secrets that they wouldn’t share with anyone. (“I’m terrified that one day everything I have will come crashing down and I’ll be just like my parents.” _“I’m worried that people will actually see me how I see myself.”_ ) In just a few weeks, the pair spilled more of their secrets to each other than they’d ever told anyone else.

Éponine and Grantaire didn’t really understand it, but it didn’t really matter. The two were close and they trusted each other.

Grantaire trusted Éponine not to tell anyone his secrets. She trusted the same of him. He trusted her with his artwork and his dog, Dionysius. She trusted him with Gavroche (the kid loved him).

They trusted each other and they were close. They were each other’s best friend.

 

\---

“C’mon, Ép! Truth or dare?”

It was girl’s night at Musichetta’s place and they were playing Truth or Dare while _13 Going On 30_ was playing in the background. Éponine rolled her eyes as Cosette bat her eyelids.

“What are we, in middle school?” she questioned, taking a sip of the wine they were all sharing.

“Don’t be like that. Answer the damn question!” Musichetta laughed, rolling onto her stomach.

“Fine, truth.”

Cosette and Musichetta looked at each other with similar grins.

“I don’t like the way you two are looking at each other,” she states.

The two just grin wickedly as the blonde sits up. “Okay. So, answer this: are you and Grantaire dating?”

Éponine nearly chokes on her drink before laughing. “What? Are you two serious? Me and R? _Hell no!_ ” she exclaimed, still laughing.

Musichetta and Cosette look at each other. “But… you two are always together! Seriously, every time we walk into the Musain you and R are just talking and laughing or something. You’re not lying, are you?” Musichetta looks at Éponine closely.

“Seriously? Does everyone think I have a thing for Grantaire? I mean, he’s my best friend, but we’d be awful for each other,” she explained. “I love the guy, I do, but we get drunk way too often with each other.”

“So… You’re not into Grantaire?” Cosette asked slowly.

Éponine shook her head. “Definitely not.”

“Oh. Okay.”

 

\---

Éponine loved the meetings with Les Amis. It gave her something to do that wasn’t going to bore herself to death. She usually brought Gavroche, just because it was easy to watch him what with most members of the group being responsible.

She also loved the meetings because it gave her friends.

Every one of them Éponine was grateful to have. Grantaire was fucking awesome, Enjolras kept her passionate, Joly kept her healthy, Combeferre kept her from getting dumber, Jehan made her laugh, Courfeyrac taught her the best jokes, Bahorel taught her better fighting moves, Bossuet always made her smile, Marius made her feel comfortable, Musichetta taught her to dance, and Cosette made sure she always looked her best.

Feuilly… was Feuilly.

Éponine felt different around him. She laughed louder and more and she was always entertained with him. He seemed to understand her thoughts and feelings. She knew that he wasn’t like the others—he only took a religious studies class and he worked at an auto shop during the week and at a bar on weekends. He was just as passionate as Enjolras, although he tended to be a bit more grounded.

Éponine knew a lot about Feuilly just like she knew a lot about Grantaire.

But around Feuilly she just felt really confused.

Half of the time she thought of him as just another friend. The other half Grantaire caught her looking at him—a lot. ( _“That’s six.”_ “What?” _“That’s the sixth time I caught you staring at Feuilly,”_ he’d laugh and then she’d punch him in the arm.)

Éponine loved all of the Amis—but she supposed she liked Feuilly a little bit more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to bowtieswerenevercooler on Tumblr for giving me Grantaire's dog's name!


	4. The Courtship of Éponine Thénardier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feuilly's desperate, his friends are no help at all, and Gavroche is smart for an eleven year old.

After Joly’s helpful “suggestion”, Feuilly decides to get help with asking out Éponine. He’d already tried to think of something himself, but everything he thought of either A) was unoriginal or B) was going to make her laugh in his face. He’d already crossed out texting, making her a cake (he saw it in an old show once, okay?), and leaving a note. But it’d been nearly two weeks and he still hadn’t thought of anything.

So of course he asks his friends for help.

 

\---

“Just ask her! Just say ‘Hey, Éponine. Would you like to go out sometime?’ It can’t be that hard, Feuilly,” Joly said, rolling his eyes.

“How’d you get Bossuet and Musichetta to go out with you?” Feuilly questioned.

To his surprise, Joly blushed. “Ah, you see. Well, I didn’t exactly…” Joly paused at Feuilly’s expression. “Okay, they asked me out. Happy? But I’m sure it can’t be that hard,” he finished, pulling one of his medical textbooks closer.

“Okay, well _how_ did they ask you out?”

“Well, Bossuet fell out of a tree and gave himself a concussion. I helped him out a bit and he just blurted it out when I went to get him an ice pack,” Joly confided with a small smile on his face. “Musichetta was more blunt about it. You know how she’s manager of the Musain? Well, back when she was a barista, Bossuet and I would come down every other day, and she’d had our orders memorized by the fourth visit. By the ninth week we’d gone, we became pretty good friends and then she just invited us over to her place and well… We… Bossuet and I didn’t exactly end up home until the next morning,” Joly rushed at the end, a light blush covering his face.

Feuilly blinked. “Okay then. You… Ah…I’m gonna go now,” he stuttered, standing up.

“Just ask her out!” Joly shouted as he left.

 

\---

“You want to ask ‘Ponine out?” Grantaire questioned with a raised eyebrow.

Feuilly rubbed his neck. “Well, yeah… And I’m shit at thinking of a good way to do it and you seem to know a lot about her…” he trailed awkwardly.

The artist grinned, sipping at his beer. “Yeah, I guess I do know a lot. Just ask her out for a drink. She really likes screwdrivers and mixed stuff like that,” he shrugged.

“Ask her out for a drink? Okay, that could work,” Feuilly muttered to himself. “Are there any other drinks she likes?”

Grantaire shrugged. “We don’t really focus on what we’re drinking when we drink,” he stated. He paused for a moment. “Although, she never turns down a beer. Seriously, she’s pretty much up for any drink. Except for whiskey. Don’t get her whiskey,” he commented with a hard look in his eyes.

Feuilly nodded. “Got it. Thanks, man.”

 

\---

“How the fuck should I know? Chicks come to me, dude. It’s not the other way around,” Bahorel grinned. “In fact, if it doesn’t work out with whoever you’re trying to ask out, I’ve got a couple of girls who are into the skinny, red-headed type.”

Feuilly rolled his eyes. “You are absolutely useless, you know that?”

This got Feuilly a punch in the arm.

“But seriously. Just man up and do it! The worst thing that can happen is she says no.” Bahorel paused for a second. “She’s hot, right? Tell me she’s hot.”

He slammed his head down on the table as Bahorel laughed loudly.

 

\---

“Well, I’m very glad you came to me for help in this affair. Now, let’s see… First dates…”

Feuilly knew Courfeyrac would make a big deal out of this, so he was hesitant to ask him. Courfeyrac was great, really, but he wouldn’t let Feuilly forget he asked him for help.

“Well, _The Conjuring_ just came out didn’t it? Take the lady to see it and maybe you’ll get lucky and she’ll hide in your arm.” Courfeyrac thought for a moment. “You don’t get freaked out by horror movies do you? Or else the whole plan will backfire.”

Feuilly gave a tight-lip smile. “Thanks, Courfeyrac. Great advice.”

“You bet your pale, skinny ass it is. And if she doesn’t like horror movies, just go rent _The Notebook_ or something and then she can cry into your shoulder. If you do that option, just make sure you have chocolate or something. Either one gets you close to your lady friend.”

Feuilly decided to ignore Courfeyrac’s wink.

“Alright, well, thank you, Courf. I’ll definitely… Definitely think about your recommendations,” he said, standing up and grabbing his bag for work.

“If you get laid, it’s all thanks to me!”

 

\---

It had been another week and Feuilly was starting to get desperate. (Or, well, even more desperate than before).

He loved his friends, he did, but they were all shit at asking people out. Looking back, he realized he probably should’ve asked Jehan or Combeferre or Marius for help. He shook his head marveling at how stupid he could be sometimes.

But Feuilly still hadn’t thought of anything and he just didn’t know what to do. (He even questioned asking Enjolras for help, but he talked himself out of that one, thank God.)

He was slammed his head down on the table when Bahorel came up and asked him if he asked the chick out yet. He was very close to sobbing and just crawling up to Éponine and begging her to go out with him.

After the week’s meeting, Feuilly was surprised when Gavroche walked up to him. (Soccer season was off and Éponine didn’t like leaving the kid alone at the apartment.) “What’s up, dude?” he questioned, still packing his bags.

Gavroche crossed his arms in an attempt to look threatening. (It didn’t exactly work. He was eleven years old and short for his age.) “Look, I know you like my sister.”

Feuilly paled. “I don’t kno—”

The eleven year old sighed exasperatedly before continuing. “As I was _saying_ , I know you like her. Three things you should know. She likes video games, Chinese food, and bad jokes.”

Gavroche motioned for the man to lean in closer.

When Feuilly did so, he ended up with a slap to the back of his head. “She already likes you, fuck truck. Just grow a pair and invite her over,” he finished, rolling his eyes.

Feuilly perked up a bit, already formulating a plan in his mind. “You just gave me the best advice I’ve heard all week. You’re not too bad, G,” he grinned, standing up straight.

“Just don’t hurt her, ass-hat. I know people who can really mess you up.”

(Feuilly made a mental note to remind the group to watch their language around kids.)


	5. First Dates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feuilly finally asks Éponine out, she says yes, and first dates happen.

Feuilly decided to buy Gavroche any video game he ever wanted because he was _right_. He took the kid’s advice and it was by far the best date he’d ever had.

\---

First it started out by secretly figuring out Éponine’s schedule. Only, it was a lot less secretive than he would ever pretend.

He walked over to the small café—and it really was small. It was owned by an elderly couple, Mr. and Mrs. Labarre, who were very sweet and kind, based on what Éponine had to say about them. The Lighthouse was tucked in between an Italian restaurant and a thrift store, but it was cozy, it was warm, and it was friendly.

So it really was a surprise that more people didn’t go.

Feuilly went over one afternoon after work, smiling as the little bell announced his arrival. The Lighthouse smelled of fresh coffee and chocolate and he just stood in the doorway for a minute taking in the scene.

There was an older woman sitting at one of the smaller tables next to the window, and she was the only customer. There were booths pressed along the sides and smaller tables dispersed by the windows and closer to the counter. Pictures of coastal France decorated the walls and an old sign that read “THE LIGHTHOUSE: RAN WITH LOVE SINCE 1973” was framed above the kitchen doorway.

Feuilly walked up to the counter and had to stop himself from moaning in delight because goddamn everything smelled amazing. There were fresh baked cookies and cream puffs and slices of cake and brownies and everything that could give someone a sugar rush. Not to mention, everything was pretty cheap; most things were under four dollars. He ordered a cup of black coffee and a cookie, because, really, nothing could smell that good without being amazing.

He was pleasantly surprised when Mrs. Labarre came out and greeted him. “We don’t see too many new faces around here,” she mentioned with a slight French accent, sitting across from him at a booth.

“Well, it’s very nice. I’ll probably be back now that I know this place,” he smiled at her. He sipped at his coffee and smiled in bliss.

“That’s wonderful! Oh, I’m glad you like it. It’s always nice when people stop by; gives me a chance to socialize,” she laughed.

Feuilly couldn’t help but smile at the sight of the woman’s laughter. “I’m sure you get plenty of time! I’d be surprised if the people who came in here even once didn’t come back.”

“Oh, you’re just trying to flatter old me,” she beamed. “Now, what brings you to this old place?”

He looked down, quickly sipping at his coffee trying to think of a reason that wouldn’t sound so, well, creepy. “Um, actually, my friend Éponine works here. She talks about it a lot and I decided I’d drop in,” he replied, not mentioning that he knew she’d be off right now since she was recovering from a cold.

“Oh, Éponine? She’s a sweetheart! A bit sarcastic sometimes, but she always makes me laugh, the dear,” Mrs. Labarre smiled. “Although, she’s not in right now or else I’d have us all sit and talk!”

Feuilly sighed, breaking off a piece of the cookie. “Yeah, I sort of… knew that, which is why I decided to drop in now… and not when she’s… you know, here,” he trailed, trying to phrase his sentence correctly.

“Oh?” she questioned, sitting up straighter.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I was actually going to ask... well, you what her schedule is because…” He took a deep breath. “I’ve been planning to ask her out and I just needed to know when she’s not working,” he mumbled, taking a bite of the cookie.

Mrs. Labarre smiled and let out a laugh. “Oh, that’s wonderful! Oh, yes, of course you can know! Let’s see… she works the weekdays from 7:30 until 5:00—her baby of a brother takes the bus to school from here—and then we give her the weekends off,” she chattered, grinning at him. “But you treat her good. I don’t want to hear of you making her feel all bad. You be nice to her,” she told with a scolding tone of voice.

“I wouldn’t dream of hurting her,” he said, finishing his coffee. “Well, thank you very much, Mrs. Labarre. You’re very kind,” he told her honestly, standing up and helping her to her feet.

“Anytime, dear. And you can call me Annette. Mrs. Labarre is my husband’s mother.”

\---

Next on the list was trying to convince Courf to lend him some video games.

“And why on Earth would you need my video games?” Courfeyrac drawled dramatically, posing like the Godfather.

Feuilly rolled his eyes. “If I tell you, will you give me the games?”

All he got in reply was a shrug.

“It’s for a date. I haven’t actually asked her yet, but I’m planning things.”

The other man pouted. “You didn’t use my advice. I’m offended. I don’t know if I should even let you use them, what with you completely ignoring my advice.”

Feuilly sighed. “Dude. Please. This date has to go well. She likes video games, and you have the best video game collection the world has ever seen. Please.”

Courfeyrac grinned then, standing up. “Well, if you say it like that, I guess I can’t say no. Although, I still am upset that you didn’t use my advice. I don’t know if I’ll ever get over it,” he said, although his eyes were bright. “But, yes, you may use my video games.” He paused. “You’ll probably need a console, won’t you?”

Feuilly nodded. “Thanks, man. I don’t know how I’ll ever make it up to you,” he spoke, following Courf into his living room.

“It’s cool, just don’t bring them back scratched,” he grinned, waving an arm to his wall of video games.

Feuilly thought he had more than any game store.

\---

Lastly, and the hardest part of all, was actually asking Éponine to come over.

It wasn’t that Feuilly was _scared_ , but… No, he was scared.

He was terrified that he was going to mess everything up. That she would laugh in his face. That she’d say yes and never turn up. That she’d turn up and have an awful time.

But if he’d stop and think about it, none of those ideas sounded like Éponine. She was funny and nice and wouldn’t lie to someone she liked. He had to stop worrying and just ask her.

Easier said than done.

The meeting had just finished and everyone was surprisingly happy about the way it turned out. Well, Enjolras thought they could’ve done more, but even he realized that they got a lot done. Everyone was chatting with one another and he saw Éponine talking with Jehan about something (it seemed to be interesting; she was smiling). After about ten minutes of nervous shaking and giving himself bad pep talks, he finally managed the courage to go up to her.

Jehan must’ve noticed his nervousness so he excused himself to go talk with Courfeyrac. “Hey Feuilly, what’s up?” she smiled, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. She was wearing what looked like Cosette’s shirt, it was flowery and pretty, a pair of dark, ripped jeans, and her standard converses (they were old and well-loved).

He smiled a bit anxiously before continuing. “Nothing really. But, um, I did want to ask you something,” he said, trying not to make a fool of himself.

“Well, go on then,” Éponine urged, smiling.

He ran a hand through his hair and, of course, gets it stuck. It takes a minute to undo it with Éponine smiling and trying not to laugh (she would never know how much that meant to him). When he did get his hand out, he ended up hitting himself.

“Oh! Are you okay?” she questioned, concerned.

“Yeah, I’m f-fine.” _This just isn’t the way I imagined asking you out._ He took a deep breath and started again. “I was wondering if you’d like to, um, come over on Saturday? Just you and me…?” he trailed off.

There was a terrible moment where she didn’t say anything and Feuilly was absolutely certain that she was going to say no and laugh about the situation when she was alone and oh god she was smiling wha—

“Okay, yeah. I’d love to,” she grinned, her eyes lighting up.

He smiled stupidly before replying. “Cool. Um, I’ll pick you up, yeah? You can text me your address… Will 6 work?” he questioned, ecstatic that she hadn’t turned him down.

“Yeah. See you then, Feuilly,” she beamed, leaving the Musain.

Feuilly didn’t think he could get any happier.

\---

He took a deep breath as he looked around his apartment. Everything was clean after _two and a half hours_ (It would’ve taken less but he got distracted). Nothing was left out; his clothes were either in the laundry room or hung in his closet, his books were placed orderly on his desk, and all the plates in the kitchen were put away. He even thought he hooked the game console up correctly. Call of Duty, Grand Theft Auto, Mario Karts, and a couple other games were placed in front of the TV. He’d order Chinese later and he’d picked up one of Mr. Labarre’s cakes because you couldn’t not like their desserts.

Feuilly ran a hand through his hair and finally decided that he should go and pick up Éponine. It was nearly 5:40 and he wanted to leave early enough just in case he ran into traffic. He gave himself a once over in the mirror and decided that he could leave without looking like an idiot.

He kept going over different scenarios about what could happen in his head while he was driving. It was a miracle he didn’t end up breaking any laws. When he pulled up to her apartment, he leaned his head on the steering wheel. “You’ll be fine, you’ll be fine,” he muttered to himself, not feeling very fine at all.

When Feuilly got to Éponine’s doorstep, he took a deep breath. He was about to knock when the door open and he was suddenly looking at Gavroche. The boy grinned at him before quickly frowning and crossing his arms. “She’s almost ready,” Gavroche said to him before stepping back inside and walking to what looked like stairs. “HEY! FEUILLY’S HERE!” he shouted up and Feuilly heard thumping and a startled gasp.

Gavroche just glared at Feuilly until Éponine finally came down the stairs. “Leave him alone, G. He hasn’t done anything,” she muttered to her brother, lightly pushing him aside. “Hi,” she breathed to Feuilly.

Éponine looked _gorgeous_. She was wearing a black blouse with nice jeans and seemed to be borrowing Cossette’s boots. She was blushing slightly, and tucked her hair behind her ear as she looked at him.

“Hi,” he replied, feeling weird after staring at her. “You ready to go?” he questioned, trying not to sound as nervous as he felt.

“I’m ready if you are,” she murmured softly, stepping out. She paused before she turned to her brother. “Don’t bother anyone. Jehan should be getting here soon. Be nice to him. He’ll probably make you some dessert if you do,” she said to him, before locking the door. She turned to Feuilly and smiled. “Well, let’s go!”

\---

“How the hell did you beat me _again_?” Feuilly questioned as Éponine beat him for the seventh time at Mario Karts. She’d also beaten him at every other game they played.

“Winners never tell,” she informed secretly, grinning. “And the best part is I’m not even cheating!” she laughed, tossing the controller aside.

“How do I know you’re not? You could be.” He paused for a second. “No, wait! I know! You made a deal with a cross-roads demon so that you could have ultimate video games skill! You probably made the deal before I picked you up!” he accused, eyes lighting up.

Éponine gasped. “You figured it out! That’s _exactly_ how I got my amazing skills,” she laughed, hitting him on the arm. After she stopped laughing (and he didn’t want her to, her laugh was beautiful), she sat up straighter and looked at him. “Do you have food?” she questioned, stretching.

“Actually, yeah, the Chinese food guy should be here—” The doorbell rang. “Now, I guess,” he finished with a smile before standing up and going to pay the man. When he got back, Éponine was sitting at the tiny table that he used for eating and her legs were tucked underneath her.

“I love Chinese food,” she groaned when he placed the food down, already reaching for an egg roll.

“Shouldn’t we use plates?”

She paused for a moment. “Do you really want to do dishes later?”

“Point taken. Eat on,” he motioned, feeling content that she was laid back and that he didn’t have to do dishes after the date. He grabbed the box with the orange chicken and they ate while they told stories about work.

“You’re kidding! Someone seriously tried to buy a cake using pennies?” he laughed, wiping at his eyes.

“Yeah. Took me ages to do it but Mr. Labarre insisted that I take his money. I finally counted it all in about three minutes. Whenever he comes back in I get Nicolas to work the register,” she grinned, finishing off her cake slice.

Feuilly smiled and glanced at the time. “It’s nearly midnight. Should you be going home?” he asked, hating that she probably should be.

She sighed before nodding. “Probably. I should go rescue our dear Jehan from G’s reign of horror,” she said, searching for her shoes. He stood up and grabbed his keys while she looked.

“Alright, I’m good,” she spoke, coming back into the room.

“Let’s go then,” he replied, holding the door open for her.

\---

The car ride back to her apartment was way too short. Or, at least, Feuilly thought so. They were talking about different things and telling bad jokes, and he didn’t want the night to end. She was just amazing and he really hoped she liked the date too.

When they finally pulled up to her apartment, he sighed sadly before opening the car door and walking her to her apartment.

Éponine turned to him with a small smile on his face. “I had a great time. Really, I did. It was… a better night than I’ve had in a while,” she confessed, looking away and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “We should do it again sometime?”

Feuilly grinned. “Yeah, definitely. Anytime,” he rushed, glad that she enjoyed the night, too.

She unlocked the door and pushed it open a bit. She then turned and kissed his cheek quickly with a smirk on her face. “See you around,” she laughed, going into her apartment and shutting the door while he stood there shell shocked.

He grinned all the way home.

\---

So at the next meeting, if Feuilly happened to hand Gavroche a video game he’d been wanting for ages, well, than that was his business.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you've been enjoying the chapters so far! This is just a little collection of drabbles and one-shots and things, even though it seems to be going towards a story. Let me know if you guys would like to see anything or I'll probably just stick to Éponine/Feuilly. (Also, what do you guys think of The Lighthouse and the Labarres?)


	6. Joly's Day In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joly spends an amazing day with his two favorite people.

Joly awoke slowly, reveling in the warmth provided by his two favorite people. He loved weekends like this; weekends where everyone was off and there were no protests and no meetings and all they did was stay home. He smiled to himself, looking down at the people with him.

Musichetta was draped over the other two, always trying to take up the most space. Her smooth, black hair was fanned across her back, and one hand was by Joly’s neck and the other by Bossuet’s hand. She had stolen one of his hoodies and one pair of Bossuet’s boxers and Joly thought she looked beautiful—not that she didn’t always. She was snoring lightly and smiled softly when he brushed a strand of hair out of her face.

Bossuet was lying on top of his arm and looked a lot like a cat, if Joly was being honest. He was curled into the fetal position with the comforter wrapped around him. The only visible parts of him were his head and his hand, sticking out and seemed to be reaching for Musichetta’s.

Joly grinned, imagining how the day would go. There’d be lazy morning cuddles when the other two woke up, and they’d stay in bed for as long as possible. Then they’d all get out and make breakfast. Or, well, Musichetta would make breakfast while Joly traced over her henna designs and she’d swat him for trying to distract her. Then they’d feed each other and end up kissing on the couch because it was _their_ day and they could do what they wanted.

Musichetta slowly opened her eyes, yawning and trying to curl up more on Joly. She looked up at him and smiled when she saw the grin on his face. “Morning, baby,” she whispered, leaning up and kissing him softly. Afterwards, she leaned her head down on his chest and smiling more when he wrapped an arm around her waist.

“Morning Chetta,” he replied in his morning voice and all she wanted to do was kiss both of her boys. She reached out her hand and held Bossuet’s, grinning when he opened his eyes with a smile already on his face. He reached up and twirled a strand of his hair before looking up to Joly.

“Good morning,” he murmured happily, shifting closer to the two and offering the comforter. Then the three of them were all curled up underneath the comforter, all close to each other and feeling warm and comfortable and happy.

After each of them had their share of morning kisses, Bossuet broke the easy silence. “What’s the plan for today?” he whispered, still not wanting to break the quiet peace of the apartment. His head was near Musichetta’s, both lying pretty much on top of Joly, not that he minded.

“I was thinking we just stay here for as long as possible,” Joly responded, running a hand through Musichetta’s hair.

“I second that plan,” she agreed, closing her eyes and sighing softly.

“Guess we’re staying in today then,” Bossuet smiled, settling into the warmth his loves provided and easily following back to sleep.

\---

After an hour and a half nap, the trio decided that they’re hungry enough to get out of bed. They walk slowly to the cozy kitchen, all holding hands and half leaning on each other. Before they even attempted to get food, they spent a good five minutes just kissing in the kitchen. Bossuet’s stomach grumbled and they all let out a laugh before searching for food.

“We could make omelets,” Joly suggested, holding up the carton of eggs.

“But that means I’d have to cook it, seeing how you can’t make omelets and he burns anything in a pan,” Musichetta said, pointing at the two of them.

“That’s not true!” Bossuet protested. “I can make French toast!”

She paused for a moment. “Point taken. Speaking of which, you should make that. Your French toast is amazing,” she hummed, leaning against the counter.

“But Joly’s waffles…” Bossuet whined, turning his eyes towards the medical student.

They were silent for a moment before seeming to come to the same idea.

“Okay, we’ll all make three of what we’re good at: for me, waffles, for you, omelets, and for you, French toast. Then we can each get what we want,” Joly compromised with a smile.

They all easily did their tasks, laughing and occasionally (more than occasionally) sharing a few kisses. After about 15 minutes, everything was done and they set their table and got all the toppings they could possibly think of. Musichetta had a likeness for hot sauce or red pepper flakes on everything, Joly really enjoyed ketchup with his omelets, and Bossuet just liked chocolate syrup.

They ate slowly and peacefully, talking to one another about anything and everything. They talked about the recent meetings, about how Bossuet owed $30 to a china shop for breaking a vase, and about how Musichetta thinks she might be getting a pay raise soon. The trio soon finished and decided to leave the cleaning for later because they were all attached—whether by lips or just by skin, it didn’t really matter.

Joly and Bossuet were kissing heavily while Musichetta kissed and nipped at both of their necks. Then they were all on their oversized couch and everyone’s hands were everywhere on the others. Bossuet was tracing Chetta’s henna tattoos, all over her arms and wrapping up and around onto her shoulder. Joly and Musichetta were both kissing and his hand was gripping her hair while she gripped onto Bossuet’s hips tightly.

And when clothes started coming off, Joly was glad that, so far, the day had gone exactly as he hoped.

\---

An hour later it was nearing two o’clock and they were watching some movie while on the couch. Musichetta was pressed against the back, her head leaning on Bossuet’s chest while Joly was lying on his other side. All of them had easy smiles and warm skin and Joly and Musichetta both had messy hair.

“I don’t ever want to move again,” Joly announced, looking at his two loves.

“I don’t think any of us do,” Bossuet grinned, running his hands through the others’ hair.

“Well, I’m definitely not moving,” Musichetta muttered with a grin. Bossuet guffawed loudly while Joly turned a light shade of red. There was a lull in the conversation before she stuck her head up and looked at the TV. “What even are we watching?” she questioned.

“You know, I don’t know,” Bossuet told.

There was a pause, and then all three were laughing again.

\---

“So what are we doing for dinner?” Musichetta murmured, as it neared closer to five. The only time any of them had moved was when Joly went to get blankets. (“I don’t want any of us to catch a cold!”) “We can’t stay here for the rest of the day,” she said.

“Why not?” Joly whined, moving closer to them. He really just wanted them all to stay on their couch cuddling and smiling and laughing until they were forced to move.

“Because I’m hungry and I’m nearly positive you both are,” she responded, sitting up and stretching.

“I could go for dinner now,” Bossuet said, sitting up also.

Joly groaned and rolled so that he was lying on top of them both. “Neither of you are leaving,” he grumbled good-naturedly, wrapping his arms around both of them. “I refuse to move so by default you two aren’t either.”

“But Jollllllly,” the other two chorused.

“C’mon, you’re telling me you’re not a little bit hungry?” Bossuet insisted, crossing his arms but he wore a fond smile.

“If it means you two will get up, then no, I’m not,” the medical student spoke, gripping on tighter to them. “Why can’t we just lay here for a bit more?”

“Because if we do, I might resort to going Hannibal on you,” Chetta quipped, trying to detangle herself from his arms.

Joly groaned as Bossuet moved him off their legs and they both stood up grabbing their clothes from the floor.

“What do you want to eat, babe?” Chetta asked, brushing Joly’s hair and smiling because he was pouting.

“C’mon, I’ll make whatever.”

“We should have spaghetti,” he finally said, letting out a whine when she stopped petting his hair.

“It won’t take that long. Then we can go back to cuddling, okay?” Bossuet said, before walking to the kitchen, Musichetta following a minute later.

Joly sighed, looking around at the now empty living room. After a moment, he groaned and then stood up, following them into the kitchen. “Sometimes, I really hate you two,” he grumbled, leaning against one of the counters.

“No you don’t,” Chetta replied instantly, looking over her shoulder to smile at him. “C’mon. As a med student, would you really advise us skipping a meal?”

He sighed, moving over and wrapping his arms around her waist. “No. But I still don’t like it,” he grumbled. She just smiled and shook her head in response.

\---

After dinner, Joly grabbed the other two and dragged them back to the couch, leaving the plates where they were. Bossuet turned on the radio as he was being dragged and Musichetta was just laughing. They all sat down and Joly sat in the middle, wrapping his arms around them both. He sighed happily.

“This is much better,” he smiled, kissing both of their heads. He held them close and breathed them in. Musichetta always smelled like coffee, green apples, and something that just smelled spicy, and Bossuet smelled like his cologne and cinnamon.

“You’re such a cuddle creature,” Chetta grinned, leaning into him more and enjoying the instrumental music from the radio. “Not that I mind.”

They entered into an easy silence. It was peaceful and quiet and the only noise was the few cars outside and the soft music from the radio. Bossuet grinned and then turned to the others, sitting up.

“Would you like to dance?” he questioned, holding out his hand to Joly and Musichetta. Joly turned red while Musichetta just laughed.

“Of course I would!” she grinned, standing up and taking his hand. “C’mon, babe,” she said, pulling Joly to his feet. She laughed at his expression.

They danced together and to other people, it might have been awkward. They wouldn’t have known how to make it work. Most people would think that they just switched out who danced with who, like the only way people could dance was with one other person. With them, they could dance and it was just as intimate as two people slow dancing. Most people didn’t understand how the three of them could be in a healthy relationship. There would always be questions. “Who do you love more?” It wasn’t like that. People didn’t seem to understand that they loved each other equally and with just as much passion. Some people would judge them, but it didn’t matter to them. They had each other.

And that was all they needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so this took me a while. I hope you guys enjoy. And I see Musichetta as Indian, so that's why there's mentions of Henna tattoos. My faceclaim for her is Freida Pinto and you guys should totally look her up because she's really pretty~~
> 
> I hope you enjoyed and you can always leave requests!


	7. Sunday Night Traditions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sunday movie nights were sort of a tradition to the group.
> 
> They don’t really know how it started—they really don’t know how any of their traditions start—but it didn’t really matter to them. All they knew that was now, without fail, every Sunday each person would arrive at Jehan’s apartment, each person bringing something. Jehan had the best movie set up out of all of them—a very big TV, a multitude of different seating options, a large living room, and so many blankets it sometimes worried the others.
> 
> Or, the one where Courfeyrac can't drive, Joly ships Enjolras/Grantaire, and sleepovers are the best.

Sunday movie nights were sort of a tradition to the group.

They don’t really know how it started—they really don’t know how any of their traditions start—but it didn’t really matter to them. All they knew that was now, without fail, every Sunday each person would arrive at Jehan’s apartment, each person bringing something. Jehan had the best movie set up out of all of them—a very big TV, a multitude of different seating options, a large living room, and so many blankets it sometimes worried the others.

Every weekend, each person would bring something to contribute. Courfeyrac usually brought candy, Combeferre would bring popcorn, Marius and Cosette would bring drinks, Musichetta, Joly, and Bossuet would bring pillows—they nearly had as many pillows as Jehan had blankets. Grantaire would bring beer (either to enhance the movie or keep the sane through one of Enjolras’s documentaries), Feuilly and Éponine would bring some sort of baked dessert, and Bahorel wouldn’t bring anything. The rest of them get on his case about it, but he just so happens to “forget” every time.

Each week, someone new got to choose a movie. Sometimes, they were very good movies, other times… Not so much.

Everyone loved it when it was Courfeyrac’s, Musichetta’s, Feuilly’s, or Bossuet’s week. They had a knack for picking out really awesome movies—sometimes, no one had heard of them, but they turned out to be amazing. They were mainly comedies, but there was this one Musichetta found— _Mary and Max_ —that just had them all in tears by the end (it didn’t matter that it was animated). Some people liked Éponine’s week; she always picked a horror movie. She was completely obsessed with them and most of them didn’t mind a good scare. Really, they just put up with it because Marius made the _best_ screams and faces when he was scared. Bahorel, Grantaire, and Jehan would always pick some sort of action movie. Jehan introduced them to _The Call_ , which had Marius holding onto Cosette’s hand with a tight grip for about three weeks afterwards. Cosette would choose some romance movie, something like _Dear John_ , or something that just had most of them in tears at the end, like _Charlie St. Cloud_. Combeferre and Joly would usually just choose a movie they all liked and had seen a hundred times. Joly’s personal favorite was _The Princess Bride_ while Combeferre usually went for one of the _Harry Potter’s_ (if there was something all of them liked, it was _Harry Potter_ ).

But everyone could agree on one thing: Enjolras had _horrible_ taste in movies.

Enjolras would always choose that would bore them all. He’d pick documentaries about things that, most of the time, they’d be okay with seeing—like _Farm Inc._ But Sunday nights were for relaxing and not thinking about all the crap that was in the world. He’d choose a biography about Robespierre or some other political figure that no one really knew. They’d try to stay awake for as long as possible, really, they tried, but they just couldn’t. By the end of the movie, Combeferre and Enjolras were the only ones awake; Grantaire had stood up halfway through the movie, said “This is a shit movie,” and then walked out to smoke. Combeferre would wake the other’s up while Enjolras sat in the corner, pouting. “Do you guys even _try_ to pay attention to the movie? I mean, his whole life is something that we could _learn_ from! If we don’t, we might no—”

That’s normally when Bahorel throws a pillow at his face.

 

\---

It was another Sunday and everyone woke up with a wish that it’d just be evening already. The thought last for a moment before the wish disappeared and each one was doing something else.

Enjolras woke up and went to get coffee, leaving a glass of water next to the couch where Grantaire had fallen into the night before. He had a small smile before going back to work on his essay…that wasn’t due for another two weeks. Combeferre showered and got dressed, reading one of the new books he had. Courfeyrac angrily turned off his alarm, before rolling over and going back to sleep. Joly awoke and ate quickly to get to church on time. Musichetta rolled out of bed and grudgingly went to open the Musain at 8:30. Jehan was pulling on his running shoes and grabbing his headphones for his morning jog. Bossuet actually fell out of bed. Bahorel grabbed a box of cereal and the pint of milk and placed them both down before turning on his game system. Feuilly pulled on his work boots as quickly as possible before shoving his hair in a hat and racing to get to work on time. Éponine was not yelling at Gavroche, no, she was just having a loud discussion with him about why he _shouldn’t_ _dump water on me, you little shit_. Marius got ready for his morning brunch with Cosette and her father, and Cosette was explaining to her father why he didn’t need to bring his axe to the restaurant. (“He’s nice, papa! He treats me good!” _“Are you sure I don’t need to bring it?”_ )

So, in short, the thought was pushed from their minds because of Les Amis’ very busy life.

 

\---

Jehan hummed to himself, smiling as he set up his living room. He had grabbed his collection of blankets, each one unique and _extremely_ soft, and was focusing on pushing all the couches together. He got bowls out for the different snacks the others’ would be bringing, placing them on the coffee table in the center of the room.

He paused and took a moment to look around the room. He then grinned before picking up his fluffy, orange cat. “C’mon, Maya. Let’s go water the plants before everyone gets here,” he said, nuzzling into her fur before walking out onto his patio.

 

\---

Courfeyrac saunters in with a loud laugh at something Combeferre said. “Jehan! We’re here!” he announces, shutting the door and placing his bags full of candy on the coffee table.

“Courf, you really should knock,” Combeferre sighed, but that was about the 100th time he’s tried to tell him. He never really listens.

Jehan waltzes in then, a warm smile on his face and his hair in a braid. “Oh, isn’t this a surprise? You’re the first ones here,” he jokes. Combeferre and Courfeyrac were always the first ones to his apartment. They were there about half an hour early every Sunday without fail.

Combeferre would pick Courfeyrac up every Sunday as the man still didn’t know how to drive. Then, they’d usually go and pick up Enjolras, but today he said he’d get there himself. Combeferre was hesitant as Enjolras had a really old car that probably wouldn’t last through the month. However, the blonde man insisted so Combeferre simply drove to Jehan’s apartment which was about 10 minutes away from Courfeyrac’s.

“Well, we didn’t have to pick up Enjolras today, so we’re even earlier then we normally are,” Combeferre said with a smile, taking off his shoes and placing the box of popcorn on the table.

The three talked for a while, Courfeyrac sitting close to Jehan on one of the couches. They took bets on what movie Enjolras was going to bring—Courfeyrac thinks it will be _Terror! Robespierre and the French Revolution_ that was one of Enjolras’s favorites and Combeferre alone had seen fifteen times, Jehan bets that it would be something about worker’s rights, and Combeferre supposes that it will be something “stimulating to the mind” which basically translates into something that will put the rest of them to sleep.

As they continue talking, the rest of the group shows up in waves. First came Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta with Bahorel in tow. Each one had their arms full of pillows—large ones, small ones, some with mildly worrying stains, and others that just looked comfortable. Jehan stood up with a grin, grabbing the one that he possessively claimed as “his” (a really soft white one that really made him feel like he was on a cloud) before helping them and tossing the pillows onto the couches. Feuilly and Éponine entered next, without Gavroche for once. Éponine was fussing with his hair, mentioning how he really should let her cut it, but he just rolled his eyes and greeted their friends, placing what looked like a plate of brownies down on the table. Feuilly sits down while Éponine excuses herself to the bathroom—she absolutely refuses to watch movies with pants on. None of them really cared anymore; besides, they were all under blankets. After she came back and was sitting next to Feuilly with a happy smile on her face, Enjolras and Grantaire came in.

Joly turned to Combeferre with wide eyes because it was rare that the two came in together. Usually Enjolras would come with Combeferre and Courfeyrac and Grantaire would hitch a ride with Éponine. But they came _together_ and they were talking about something _together_ and Joly and Combeferre just wore similar expressions and they were already formulating ways to get information out of the others.

Enjolras looks up then and sees them watching him and R. “Are we the last ones here?” he questions, his cheeks just barely turning red.

“Nah, we’re still waiting for Marius and Cosette,” Bahorel replies, stretching his legs out to take up an extra seat.

“Pontmercy better get his ass here because if he’s not, we’re starting without him,” Grantaire grins, pushing Courf over so that there’s room for him to sit.

And Joly nearly squeals when Enjolras sits next to Grantaire, but luckily it doesn’t escape as Marius and Cosette finally walk in.

“Sorry we’re late, but we had to go buy drinks,” Cosette says, flopping down on the couch and stretching her legs. Marius brought in the bags with said drinks placing them down on the coffee table and quickly sitting next to Cosette, wrapping an arm around her.

“So, whose turn is it tonight?” he questions, and Musichetta just barely holds back her laugh.

“I brought a movie this time,” Enjolras says and there’s a collective groan. He rolls his eyes. “My movies aren’t always that bad!”

“E… Everyone fell asleep last time,” Grantaire points out.

“Not everyone! ‘Ferre was still awake!”

“Okay, fine, anyone with a normal brain was asleep.”

Enjolras pouted. “I didn’t even bring a documentary this time,” he muttered, crossing his arms and resembling a six year old.

There were gasps from the girls in the room and Joly sat up straighter. “Are you feeling okay, Enjolras? Would you like me to take your temperature? I think you might have a fever.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes as the rest of the room laughed. He held up his hands to stop Joly from inspecting him. “I’m fine, Joly. I’m _fine_. I just decided to bring something else,” he continues, pulling out the DVD from his bag.

“You brought _Chinatown_? That’s my favorite movie!” Grantaire said gleefully, missing the slight red blush in Enjolras’s cheeks. Joly, however, did not. He looked to Combeferre with the biggest grin on his face.

“Everything okay there, Joly?” Marius questioned, not understanding why the studying medical student had such a smile.

“I’m fine!” Joly squeaked, ignoring everyone’s curious expressions. “Are we going to start it?”

There was a pause before everyone was rushing to do different things. Bahorel went to microwave the popcorn (somehow, whenever he did the popcorn, it turned out _perfectly_ ), Combeferre was emptying the candy into separate bowls, Éponine was definitely _not_ getting drinks, ‘Chetta was getting them. There were a few fights over blankets and pillows, but within ten minutes, everyone was situated.

Somehow Bahorel ended up with the biggest blanket even though he was the only one using it. Cosette was leaning on Marius’s shoulder, Jehan, Courfeyrac, Enjolras, and Grantaire were all sharing a blanket, Éponine’s legs were stretched onto Feuilly’s lap, Combeferre had somehow ended up with Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta, and Maya was curled up on top of Bahorel’s stomach.

“Well, let’s start this thing,” Bossuet said as Jehan pressed play on the remote.

 

\---

Everyone gaped as the movie ended.

“Well, that was… something all right,” Bossuet said as the credits rolled.

“I don’t… I… Why do you like that movie again, R?” Joly questioned, trying to sort through the emotions he was feeling.

Grantaire shrugged. “It represents how things actually happen in the world. Basically, the moral is forget trying to solve crimes and bring justice and shit, the rich guys own everything and it literally doesn’t matter what happens other than that. They can do what they want, stop getting in the way or they'll do what they want to you next,” he said, running a hand through his curls.

“Well, I for one found it fascinating,” Jehan smiled, popping a few more M&M’s into his mouth.

“I didn’t! Dude, that was depressing as fuck!” Courfeyrac yelled, lifting his head off of Jehan’s lap to look at him.

Enjolras seemed to be frozen, with a face that suggested he’d probably let out an undignified noise in the next moment. After a moment, the noise came, and it sounded like a cross between a shriek and a groan, before he fell back and leaned his head on the edge of the couch. “I can’t… That movie…” The noise came again.

Grantaire snorted. “The movie does have a way of making people speechless,” he said, motioning to the room where Marius, Cosette, and Musichetta were still frozen in place. “C’mon, it wasn’t that bad,” he rolled his eyes.

“No, it was just… Well, somewhat depressing?” Combeferre said, taking his glasses off and rubbing at his eyes.

Grantaire shrugged. “Whatever you say, dude. The mixed feelings about it are why I don’t bring it,” he continued, before turning to Enjolras. “Why’d you bring it?”

Enjolras picked his head up to look at him. “I heard from one of my classmates that it was good?” he said slowly. Combeferre narrowed his eyes as he looked at his best friend. Enjolras glanced up and caught his eyes. _You’re talking to me tomorrow_ , Combeferre’s eyes read. The blonde rolled his eyes and coughed slightly before stretching. “It certainly was interesting…”

Grantaire nodded and the living room was silent, except for the soft snores coming from Jehan’s cat. Éponine turned to rest her head on Feuilly’s shoulder, and Marius rested his head on top of Cosette’s.

“Are you all staying?” Jehan questioned softly, running a hand through his hair. There were many affirmative hums, seeing how the next day was Memorial Day and most of them had off work. “Alright,” he sighed, leaning back against the couch.

Everyone was comfortable in their own way. Cosette was lying on top of Marius as he stretched out, his feet hanging off the edge of one couch. Bahorel was trying to take up as much space as possible with Maya-the-cat curled up on his stomach. Feuilly was sitting up (he’d have neck pain in the morning) and Éponine’s head when on his shoulder. Musichetta was on Bossuet and Joly was pressed up against his side, his hand holding Musichetta’s. Courfeyrac’s head was in Jehan’s lap and Jehan was lying down, his head resting near Combeferre’s leg. Combeferre was situated in a corner, slowly running his hands through Jehan’s hair. Grantaire somehow was half-leaning on the cushions on the back of the couch with Courfeyrac’s feet in his lap. Enjolras’s head was resting hesitantly on R’s shoulder and both had a small smile on their face.

Not all Sunday movie nights ended up with group sleepovers.

But everyone always liked when they did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was really fun to write!!! I really needed a nice bonding/cuddle fic and I hope you guys liked it!  
> Big thanks to ao3 writer MeMeMe/tumblr person notanearlyadopter for helping me out with the Chinatown movie (I haven't ever seen it, but she said it was something Grantaire would like). Her words are used when Grantaire is explaining the moral of the movie, and I just wanted to credit her and thank her again for helping me out!!! I hope you guys enjoyed!


	8. The Problems with Driving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Courfeyrac has three sisters, Combeferre, Enjolras, and him have been friends since middle school, and Courfeyrac absolutely cannot drive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: There is a description of a car accident, but not in detail. Also warnings for descriptions of panic attacks.

“Combeferre, could you drive me to the store later? I need more food.”

It was a Thursday evening and everyone was sitting around and chatting at the Musain. Some people were studying or trying to get work done (really, it was only Enjolras, Combeferre, and Joly), but most were just socializing and relaxing before the weekend started. Combeferre sighed, glancing at his friend’s hopeful expression. He loved Courfeyrac, he really did, but he was getting tired of having to drive him around. It wouldn’t be a problem if Courfeyrac lived closer to things, but he didn’t and so Combeferre was stuck driving him around.

“I suppose,” he replied, placing a sticky note in his book.

Courfeyrac grinned. “Thanks, ‘Ferre!” he shouted, before turning back to his conversation with Bahorel and Feuilly.

“You know, you don’t have to drive him,” Enjolras noted, looking up from his laptop to glance at his best friend.

“You know he can’t drive, Enjolras. It’s not really a problem.”

“But we all took Driver’s Ed. I don’t know why he doesn’t know how… Not to mention, you’ve been driving him around since you got your license. You should teach him how to, or just tell him to take the bus.”

Combeferre paused. Enjolras did have a point. He’d been driving Courfeyrac places for nearly five and a half years now; Courf really should have learned by now. “Fair enough. I’ll try to teach him later on,” he concluded, turning back to his book.

\---

Everyone who knew James Courfeyrac knew about his sisters. He had three of them, all younger than him.

The oldest was Bridget, who was 18 and was affectionately known as Bee by the group. She planned on going into music when she graduated and loved hanging out with the girls of the group, especially Musichetta. She had the same brown hair as Courfeyrac, only hers was straight. She had loving brown eyes and she was always stealing her brother’s hoodies. She laughed loudly and was always asking what protests they were planning next. She was especially involved in the group when they discussed worker’s rights or environmental problems.

Jeanne was 15 and she was much quieter than her older sister and brother. Every time the group saw her, she’d be reading another classic book. She really liked Combeferre, Joly, and Jehan because they tended to be softer than the rest of them and would always suggest books for her to read. She took after her mother’s looks; she had curly blonde hair, and green eyes that always seemed to be shining. She wouldn’t participate much with the group, but when they discussed topics such as child abuse, she’d quietly set aside her book and pay close attention (she wanted to be a social worker or a child therapist when she was older).

Aimee was the baby of the Courfeyrac family. She was 7 years old and she was always giggling and holding onto her brother’s back. She was the spitting image of Courf; she had curly brown hair and bright brown eyes just like him, with freckles dusted across her cheeks and nose. She absolutely adored Bossuet, Bahorel, and Grantaire and would follow them around wherever they went… unless Enjolras was talking. When Enjolras was talking, she seemed to be hypnotized and would sit on the floor in front of him while he spoke. She’d stare at the man with her mouth partly open and it was one of the few times when she wasn’t babbling away. Courfeyrac would always tease Enjolras because whenever she did that, E would wear a tiny smile for the rest of the night.

All of Les Amis adored Courfeyrac’s sisters and would always question when he would bring them to see the group. But there was something they didn’t know.

Courfeyrac used to have a brother.

\---

Isaac was 11 years old when Courf was born, and he was _not_ happy about it. He didn’t want a baby brother, he wanted a new bike. But he got a crying baby who smelled really badly.

“How can you not love him, Isaac? James’s a cutie,” his mother would say, moving so that he could hold the baby.

Isaac wrinkled up his nose as James was placed in his arms. The baby had small tufts of brown hair and pink skin that seemed way too fragile for him.

Isaac looked closely at him wondering what the big deal was. He knew lots of people with babies; he tended to think that they were ugly. His face was close to the baby’s and he was trying to decipher what his eye color was when James got this really big grin on his face. He had no teeth but he was smiling widely at Isaac and Isaac couldn’t help but think that maybe having a baby brother wouldn’t be all that bad.

\---

“Isaac, can you take James to his friend’s house today? It’s on the way to your soccer practice and I have to pick up your grandmother’s birthday gift.”

Seventeen year old Isaac sighed, turning to look at his mother where she was attempting to feed baby Bridget. His mom’s stomach was getting bigger day by day, and Isaac wondered if he’d soon have another little sister soon. “I guess so. C’mon, Jamie, we’re leaving in five minutes!” he shouted up the stairs before trying to find his soccer ball and cleats.

“I’m ready!” six year old James called, racing down the stairs with his Gameboy in hand. “Do I get to ride with you?” he questioned with a smile, turning to face his older brother.

Isaac finished pulling on his cleats before grinning and ruffling James’s hair. “Yep. C’mon, we don’t want you to be late for…”

“Alex!”

“Alex’s house. Let’s go,” he finished, kissing his mother’s cheek quickly before dragging James out to the car.

“When do I get to sit up front with you?” James asked, buckling himself into his seat as Isaac started the car.

“Well, you’re six now so you’ve still got a little ways to go.” He drove for a little ways before he turned on the radio station, pausing at one with the classics.

“I don’t like this station. It’s for old people. Can you put in my CD?”

“Nope. I’m driving, I get to listen to my music.”

James pouted. “But you always get to listen to your music!”

Isaac grinned. “When you get to drive, you’ll get to choose the music.”

“But that’s not for forever!”

“Well, I guess you’ll have to stick with my mu—Shit!”

Isaac attempted to swerve out of the truck’s way.

It didn’t work.

There was an impact, and James’s Gameboy flew out of his hands. There was glass shattering and the car flipped once before stopping. James was whimpering quietly when it stopped and he held onto his head tightly.

He was still whimpering when a middle aged woman tapped on his window loudly.

“Sweetie? Are you okay? Oh my God, Ben, call the ambulance!”

James tried not to move but his head really hurt and he didn’t hear his brother. “Is-Isaac? Are you okay?” he sniffled. He waited. No response. “Isaac?” Nothing. He didn’t understand why his brother wasn’t talking. He didn’t understand why his head hurt, but it _did_ and he was _scared_ and he wanted his brother to take him home.

“Kid, we’re gonna get you out okay? You just gotta hold on a minute.” All James knew was that there were lights and sirens and people were asking him questions and all he wanted to find Isaac because he could answer all the questions and then he could take them both home. Some lady looked at his head and said something about a cussion before he felt arms around him.

“James! Oh thank God. James, you’re okay, everything’s okay,” his mother whispered in his ear and he was crying because he didn’t understand what was going on and his mother was crying into his shoulder and he just wanted to go home.

“Mommy? Where’s Isaac? I want to go home,” he whimpered, pressing his face into her stomach.

His mother let out a quiet sob. “James, Isaac… Isaac’s not… Oh God, Braden, what am I supposed to tell him?” she asked his father, standing up.

James looked up at his mother, confusion in his eyes. “What’s wrong with Isaac? He wasn’t ‘sponding to me in the car. Is he okay?”

His mother let out another sob, before pressing her face into his father’s shoulder.

“James… Isaac’s dead.”

\---

The funeral was three weeks later and all James knew was that his brother wasn’t coming home and everyone was crying and _it was all his fault_. If he hadn’t argued about playing his CD then Isaac would still be here and his mother would still have a smile and his heart wouldn’t hurt so badly.

He was wearing a new suit his mother got him and he was sniffling softly as different people said good things about his big brother. Then his mom took his hand and him and his dad and baby Bridget went up with her and she was saying nice things and then she was crying. He decided he wanted to say nice things too.

He reached for the microphone and closed his eyes for a second, thinking hard about what he wanted to say.

“Isaac was my big brother. He was really nice to me and he would always play with me, no matter what. He’d even play with me when his friends were over!” There was a wet laugh from the crowd. “But Isaac was a really cool big brother. Sometimes he’d take me to get ice cream and other times he’d help me with my games! I just… I want my big brother back,” he finished, wiping at his eyes as the tears came again.

He felt his mother pick him up and take him back to his seat. He squeezed his eyes tightly and tried to fall asleep so he wouldn’t hurt so badly anymore.

\---

For a long time after that, Courfeyrac couldn’t even get into a car without panicking. After his mother made him go to therapy when he was 8, he slowly learned to react better when he was in one. He’d still dig his nails into his palm and close his eyes, but it was better than having a panic attack.

When he started middle school, he could ride in cars easier, but he still tended to dig his nails into his palm. That was also when he met Combeferre and Enjolras. The trio clicked immediately and soon spent all of their time with each other. Courfeyrac felt comfortable around them, and he hadn’t felt truly comfortable around anyone since the car accident.

Enjolras and Combeferre confided in Courfeyrac with their plans for the future. Courfeyrac didn’t really understand at the time how they were going to do it, but Enjolras’s eyes were always brighter when he was talking about something important and Courfeyrac liked seeing his friends happy.

By the time high school came around, Aimee was born and Courfeyrac was spending most of his time with Combeferre and Enjolras. The three were always thinking of ways to make the world better or they were simply hanging out together.

The one thing every one of Courfeyrac’s classmates was excited for was driver’s ed. Everyone just wanted to drive and be independent and finally be able to get out of the house. Every time someone mentioned this, he’d smile and agree with them, only to subtly dig his nails into his hand. He’d take the class, of course, but honestly, he was terrified that he’d have some sort of reaction while taking it. He shook these fears off, but he was pretty sure Combeferre knew something was off about him.

He actually did pretty well in the class. He picked up on things quickly, and only had to leave the classroom twice when they were talking about car accidents and distracted driving. He acted excited along with his classmates. “Once I get my license, I’ll be able to take my sisters to the beach.” “I’m totally gonna pass the test on the first try.” He lied easily, and only Combeferre and Enjolras seemed to think something was off. They didn’t question him after he first said nothing was wrong.

He passed his permit test on the first try. _Enjolras_ didn’t even do that. (Combeferre did, but that was beside the point). He showed off his permit to everyone he met, including his new friend Grantaire.

“Look at it!” he squealed, shoving it into R’s face.

“That’s really awesome Courf. I’m glad you passed,” he replied, rolling his eyes and sounding rather bored. He had failed his first time, but really wasn’t studying much.

“I could always help you study, R. You might need my wisdom!”

Grantaire punched him in the arm.

\---

The first Saturday after getting his permit, Courfeyrac’s dad took him to an empty church parking lot and tried to teach him to drive.

Key word being try.

“Alright, now what you want to do first is get used to pushing in the clutch all the way. You can’t shift gears if you don’t push the clutch in all the way. Then you w—”

“Dad. I _know_. I took the course,” he rolled his eyes from the passenger’s seat.

“Alright, then let’s see you try.” His dad walked around to the passenger’s side and Courfeyrac hesitantly got into the front seat.

He adjusted the seat and buckled himself in before taking a deep breath. He started the car and drove about twenty feet before the memories started coming in.

_“Well, I guess you’ll have to stick with my mu—Shit!” Sirens. Loud voices. Pain in his head. Isaac? Where was Isaac? Tears. Concussion. Hugs. More tears._

“James? James! James, breathe!”

Courfeyrac’s breathing was coming in short little gasps. His eyes were squeezed shut, his nails were breaking the skin in his palm, he was whimpering and he just wanted the memories to stop.

_Funeral. Suits. Black. People crying. “I want my brother back.” My fault. My fault. My fault._

His eyes opened suddenly as he felt his father’s hand grip his wrist. His breathing was still quick and he couldn’t stop whimpering, but he quieted and tried to focus on his dad’s voice.

“James, you’re okay. You have to breathe. Deep breath in, deep breath out. Breath in, breath out. You’re okay.”

Courfeyrac shuddered before he finally was able to breathe properly again. He had a headache and there was still a small tightness in his chest but the memories had stop and he could breathe. He shakily stood up before climbing into the back seat and curling into a ball. His father drove him, glancing at Courfeyrac every time they stopped. Courf just wanted for the memories to stop filtering in.

Later that night, he heard his parents discussing what to do.

“You didn’t see him, Suzanne. He kept whispering ‘my fault, my fault’. He couldn’t breathe and he _scared_ me. We have to do something. He won’t be able to drive like that.”

“We still have the therapist’s number. We could try her… But I thought he was okay! He hasn’t had a major problem since elementary school.” He could hear his mother sigh from his spot on the stairs. “I never wanted any of this to happen… Why did it have to happen?”

“I don’t know, Suzanne. I truly don’t.”

Courfeyrac hadn’t questioned his parents the next morning when there was a jar of pills on his bedside table.

They hadn’t questioned him when he said he didn’t really want to drive.

\---

Combeferre glanced at Courfeyrac where he was chattering away in the passenger’s seat. He was telling a story about something Aimee had done when she was a baby and he had this really large smile on his face. Combeferre laughed with him before pulling into an empty lot.

“Uh, ‘Ferre? This isn’t the grocery store…” Courfeyrac trailed, a confused look in his eyes.

“No, it isn’t. How do I say this? Okay, so I don’t mind driving you around, I don’t, but don’t you think you should learn? I mean, it’s been nearly six years. So I thought maybe I’d teach you,” Combeferre said hopefully, motioning to the empty parking lot. “There’s nobody around and it’s really big, and I drive an automatic so it won’t be hard to learn.”

Courfeyrac’s eyes widened and he pressed himself closer to the car door. “I appreciate the thought, Combeferre, but I really… I really don’t want to right now, okay?” he said shakily, digging his nails into his palms.

Combeferre didn’t see the anxiety in his friend’s body language and shook his head. “You can’t rely on everyone to drive you. It’d be a lot easier for you. You’d be able to get to school a lot quicker.”

“I’ll take the bus! Just, please ‘Ferre, _please,_ not now!”

Combeferre was just irritated. “Courfeyrac. C’mon. You’re twenty-one. You’re learning to drive,” he said, opening his door and going around to open Courf’s.

Courfeyrac protested loudly and Combeferre just didn’t understand why he was disagreeing so much. He grumbled under his breath until Courfeyrac suddenly stopped and ran in the other direction.

“James Courfeyrac!” he shouted, sighing loudly before chasing after him.

Courfeyrac couldn’t breathe. His palms were bleeding slightly and his head hurt and _oh god, I’m so sorry, Isaac. It’s all my fault_.

Combeferre found him curled into a ball underneath a tree, crying and whimpering.

“Courfeyrac?”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault. I’m sorry, sorry, sorry.”

Combeferre frowned, kneeling down and looking at his friend. He was inhaling quickly and ‘Ferre didn’t understand why he kept repeating those same lines. “Courfeyrac? Hey, you’re okay. Do you know where you are?”

Courfeyrac gasped. Yes, he was on the street and he was surrounded by sirens and there were people he didn’t know asking him questions and he just wanted his brother and—

“Courfeyrac, you need to breathe. You’re in an empty parking lot. It’s me, it’s Combeferre. You’re okay, everything’s okay.”

Combeferre? Oh. Yes, Combeferre, he was a friend. Courfeyrac opened his eyes to see his friend’s concerned face.

“You’re okay. You need to calm down. Breathe with me, okay? Deep breath in, deep breath out. Breathe with me.” Combeferre took slow breaths, trying not to let his worry show.

Courfeyrac tried to match his breathing but his chest hurt and he needed the breaths or else he’d pass out and _oh God, Isaac, where are you?_

“Hey, hey, hey! Courf, it’s just me. C’mon, you can do it. In and out. Just like that. There you go. You’re okay, you’re okay.”

He let out a whimper, but managed to get his breathing to match Combeferre’s.

“Good, good. Okay, I’m going to take your hand. It’s bleeding a little bit. You gotta relax your fingers. Okay?”

He felt warm hands in his and he managed to stop pressing so hard into his palm, and instead gripped onto his friend’s hands.

“’Ferre, it’s—it’s all my fault. I didn’t—I didn’t mean to, it just it came out of nowhere!”

Combeferre brushed a strand of hair from his friend’s face. “Slow down. You’re okay. I can’t understand you, you need to relax. Don’t talk for a few minutes. Just breathe.”

Courfeyrac nodded and shut his eyes, trying to stop the memories from flowing in again. It took about ten minutes, but he eventually calmed down and was able to sit up and smile sheepishly at his friend.

“I…”

Combeferre held up his hands. “You don’t have to explain now. Let’s just get your groceries, yeah?”

Courfeyrac smiled gratefully before walking with him back to the car.

\---

Courfeyrac was curled up on his couch while Combeferre was making him tea. He was grateful that Marius was out with Cosette because he didn’t really want to explain to two people at the moment. He wasn’t even sure Marius noticed that he never drove.

Combeferre came out a few moments later, pressing a cup into his hands and sitting next to him. He gave Courfeyrac a few moments to think before he spoke. “So, what happened today? I’ve never seen you react like that before…”

Courfeyrac sighed softly and sipped at his tea.

“Did I ever tell you I had an older brother?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there's your daily allowance of angst. Some lovely Courfeyrac/Combeferre friendship (could be read as pre-romance if you want, although I just wrote it as an awesome friendship) and some background on Courf's family. Thanks goes to Tumblr/ao3 writer goldfishtobleroneandamitie for her help on names for Courf's family!   
> I hope you guys liked it and I also hope you don't hate me for writing this.


	9. Multilingual Disagreements

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone knows of Les Amis, Enjolras and Grantaire are multilingual, and feelings are hurt.

Anyone who worked at or frequented Le Musain knew of Les Amis de l’ABC.

They were a student group who thought of themselves as activists. The older regulars just thought they were kids with big ideas. Most of the workers and customers didn’t mind them; they tended to stay in their little corner and were generally very kind people. They always ordered drinks, which pleased the baristas, and were generous with their tips, which also pleased the baristas.

But anyone who knew of Les Amis also knew of their fights.

Well, not really fights, they were more of loud disagreements or debates, and it wasn’t really the whole group, just two in particular. One man—a tall, blonde, “god-like” (one of the younger barista’s words) man—would be talking about something to the rest of the group with passion in his eyes. He’d be giving a speech (and the rest of the café would wonder how he could give such wonderful speeches each time), when another man—one with black curls, blue eyes, and was usually drinking some sort of alcohol—would say something that just made the other man stop. There would be a pause and then the blonde man would say something like, “care to repeat that?” or “I didn’t quite catch that”. The dark-haired man would say it again louder and then…

Then all hell would break lose.

Or, at least, that’s when regulars knew to high-tail it out of the café.

Because then the two men would just start debating with each other—loud and angry and with fingers pointing. But that wasn’t the most interesting part. The interesting part was that they would never fight in English.

Oh, it’d start out that way, of course. English was their natural language. But somewhere along the line, the two men would switch to French… and then Spanish. Then German, Latin, Italian, and one of the baristas swore they spoke in Russian once.

Most customers didn’t stick around long enough to see how the fights ended.

\---

The rest of the group seemed to make a game out of it.

They’d take bets to see how long it took before it started (the earliest was three minutes into one meeting), they’d often ask for a round of shots when it started (each one drank when Enjolras and Grantaire switched languages, extra if they were speaking two different languages at the same time), and one time, Bahorel even thought to bring popcorn.

Marius was quite shocked the first time he saw the pair fighting. He leaned over to Courfeyrac. “Shouldn’t we try to stop them?” Everyone shushed him, including some of the baristas.

“No, dude, it’s really entertaining hearing them fight. Just wait a minute.”

Marius listened and made the most interesting face when the two switched into Spanish. “I don’t… They know _Spanish_?”

“They know, like, seventy languages, dude. It’s really fucking weird, but cool at the same time,” Bahorel commented, sitting up straighter as Enjolras seemed to be getting even angrier.

Marius left when Enjolras and Grantaire started speaking Greek.

\---

This week’s topic was about social services.

Enjolras had recently found out about how Éponine’s parents treated her and her siblings (he seemed really surprised when she mentioned that she _might_ have two other brothers—and appalled when she didn’t know for sure) and he was just _angry_ that no one tried to step in.

“We have to bring awareness to more people. We can’t let children be kept in those types of situations. Abuse, neglect, carelessness—it isn’t right! Neglect is the most common form of abuse for children—and not all of them get to be placed in a home with people who care. In 2011, 51 states reported that there were 1,545 fatalities—and nationally, 1,570 children die from abuse and neglect. Those children could have done something to change the world! And the system is not doing anything. It’s ‘slow and useless’, using Éponine’s terms. There has to be something we can do. We could…”

Enjolras was in his element when he was giving speeches. His eyes were aglow and he was comfortable, and every part of his being radiated confidence. The good thing was that he was using his talent—and oh, what a talent it was—to try to help the general population. He probably shouldn’t care; he grew up as part of the 1%. He had summer houses and never wore anything second hand. He was outrageously wealthy and would probably never be in debt. He shouldn’t have cared. But that was the amazing thing about him—he _did_.

Grantaire snorted while Enjolras continued his speech, finishing off his drink.

Most people had misinterpreted Grantaire. It wasn’t that he didn’t care; it was that he just _knew_ nothing was going to change in his life time. He was a pessimist, he really was, but he was because of his experiences and his experiences really sucked. So, no, he didn’t think anything was going to change.

Which really irritated their dear leader.

Enjolras had heard Grantaire’s snort, of course, and so he paused. Any other time, and he might’ve ignored it. But he had gotten a call from his parents last night (never an enjoyable experience), so he was already mildly irritated. “Did you have something to say, Grantaire?” Enjolras asked, turning to face the man in the back.

“I was just wondering if you knew that people have been trying to change social services for years, dear leader. Nothing major has changed so far,” Grantaire replied with a grin that only further irritated Enjolras.

“Others didn’t have the outreach nous avons aujourd’hui. Nous avons un large éventail de personnes et, franchement, les gens les plus importants qui seront prêts à écouter notre cause.” _(we have today. We have a broader range of people and, frankly, more important people who will be willing to listen to our cause.)_

“Ils pourraient être disposés, mais pensez-vous qu'ils se soucient?” _(They might be willing, but do you think they care?)_

“Pourquoi ne pas s'en soucier?”  _(Why wouldn't they care?)_

Grantaire rolled his eyes before responding. “Corazón No todo el mundo es tan caliente como el tuyo, querido líder.” _(Not everyone's heart is as warm as yours, dear leader.)_

“No me llames así,” Enjolras replied irritably. “Tengo fe en que las personas se preocupan cuando les mostramos los hechos.”  _(Don't call me that. I have faith that the people will care when we show them the facts.)_

By now, the rest of the group had gathered in a small circle a little farther away from the two arguing and closer to the bar. Courfeyrac waved for a barista to bring them shots while Jehan went to go pop popcorn in the back room. Each person was intrigued, but Gavroche seemed to be the most interested.

“Sie sind ein Optimist, dann. Ich glaube nicht, dass diejenigen, existierte nicht mehr,” Grantaire stated, taking a sip from his beer.  _(You are an optimist, then. I didn't think those existed anymore.)_

“Warum muss ich ein Optimist zu sein, wenn ich Hoffnung und Vertrauen in die Menschen haben?”  _(Why must I be an optimist if I have faith and hope in the people?)_

“What language are they speaking now?” Gavroche whispered to Feuilly.

“I’m pretty sure it’s German,” he replied, not taking his eyes off the debate in front of him.

“Die Menschen sind nicht zuverlässig, Enjolras. Le persone si preoccupano per nessuno, ma se stessi. Cercano solo per se stessi. E 'come funziona il mondo.”  _(People are not reliable, Enjolras. People care for no one but themselves. They only look out for themselves. It's how the world works."_

“Are you sure you’re not talking about yourself?” Enjolras said coolly, looking at Grantaire with a sharp look in his eyes.

The once mostly-comfortable silence became tense. Les Amis knew that if Enjolras and Grantaire started “debating” in English, it was serious. Whatever Grantaire must’ve said (no one could speak Italian) must have struck a nerve with the blonde leader.

“Merda,” Grantaire mumbled under his breath. “Do you think I don’t care, Enjolras? Is that what you’re suggesting?”

“Well, you don’t seem to agree with how this group views things. You’re always scoffing at our causes and you don’t seem to believe that we can fix something,” Enjolras spoke, standing up straighter.

“Shouldn’t we try to stop them?” Joly whispered to the rest of them, concerned for the way his friends were acting.

“We tried that once. Don’t you remember how quickly they turned on Courfeyrac?” Jehan murmured back, shaking his head. Courfeyrac shuddered slightly before turning his attention back to Enjolras and Grantaire.

“You honestly think I don’t care about the world?” Grantaire questioned, standing up and walking slowly towards the other man.

“I do think that. If you cared, you would try to help instead of sitting in the back and making a waste of your life.”

Everyone watching gasped softly. The baristas stopped watching and walked away, feeling an even bigger argument brewing. The rest of Les Amis glanced at each other nervously. Marius was squeezing Cosette’s hand so hard she thought she’d lost feeling in it. Gavroche was shuffling and everyone seemed to just freeze.

Grantaire grinned and everyone knew the light wasn’t in his eyes. “Thank you for revealing how you truly feel, dear Apollo. If you certainly think that, then I guess I’d better be going,” he finished, turning and leaving to pack up his stuff.

Éponine stood up then and everyone else seemed to beg her to come back. “I will not!” she hissed to them. “He doesn’t deserve to be treated that way!” She walked over to R and seemed to whisper something in his ear. Grantaire shook his head, smiled softly at her before tapping her nose and walking out of the café.

She rounded on Enjolras then. “You know, I always thought you were pretty cool. I mean, you do all of this,” she motioned to the posters about the rallies on the walls, “in your spare time and you seem to care about people. But how can you think that was right or kind? That was rude, asshole.”

Enjolras watched shell-shocked as she turned then and grabbed Gavroche’s hand and pulling him out too. Feuilly stood up awkwardly. All eyes turned on him.

“I’m their… They don’t… I drove them here,” he stuttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ll see you guys later.”

After he left, the rest of the group seemed to stand up and make excuses for leaving. After a minute, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Enjolras were the last ones in their section.

Courfeyrac shook his head. “That was cold, dude.”

Enjolras turned to him with a sharp look in his eyes. Most of them called it the “angelic death stare”. “Don’t you think I realize that, Courfeyrac?” he spat.

“Calm,” Combeferre said, placing a hand on Enjolras’s shoulder. He was just as angry at what Enjolras said as the rest of the group, but he understood that Enjolras needed advice at the moment. “Look, it wasn’t right what you said, but I know you know that. Just calm down and talk to him. You need to apologize, that’s all. Just take an hour or two to relax, all right?”

Enjolras nodded, sitting back down in one of the chairs. “I’m gonna stay here for a bit. I’ll see you guys later,” he murmured, holding his head in his hands. He closed his eyes as his friends left quietly.

How in the world was he going to fix this?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah. This was based off of a prompt found here: http://lerrryyyyy.tumblr.com/post/55094849460/i-have-this-au-headcanon-that-enjolras-and and the statistics I used can be found here: http://www.acf.hhs.gov/sites/default/files/cb/cm11.pdf
> 
> I hope you enjoyed?


	10. Apologies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where Grantaire and Jehan are best friends, Enjolras feels awful, and apologies are given.

There were a few things Grantaire picked up from his father.

One would be his looks. He had his father’s black curls, his father’s tan skin, and his father’s large hands. The only thing he could notice that he got from his mother would be his blue eyes. The rest came from his father. Because of this, Grantaire really hated looking in the mirror.

Two would be his knowledge of curse words. When his father was angry (and really, when wasn’t he angry?), he could curse so badly that even street-smart Éponine would have trouble keeping up. His father knew so many ways to insult people and Grantaire learned that way. By the time he was in third grade, he could curse out entire classrooms if he wanted to. This often led to him being sent home more than a couple of times. (And if the day after he got sent home, he showed up with a few bruises, really, it was none of their business).

Lastly would be his use of alcohol. Grantaire honestly doesn’t remember a moment when his father was sober. By the time his father would get home, he would already be drunk and yelling at his mother for _something_. He had a collection of liquor, whiskey, scotch, and beer that Grantaire discovered when he was in middle school. He started stealing from it when he was in the tenth grade.

So was it really a surprise that Grantaire tended to drink even _more_ when he was upset?

If anyone were to walk into Grantaire’s hell of an apartment, the first thing they’d notice would probably be the empty bottles of beer and a half-empty bottle of scotch. Then they’d notice that the apartment seemed to be covered in paint. (Painting was one thing Grantaire only did while drunk. He couldn’t look at his work if he was sober; he’d just throw it out.) Then, maybe, if they chose to walk a little farther, they’d notice Grantaire himself curled up on the couch, holding his greyhound close to him with wet eyes.

But, of course, no one could get in because Grantaire’s door was locked. And really, who would want to comfort Grantaire, who was just a sad excuse for a human being?

\---

Enjolras was pretty sure that his phone was going to explode soon.

He’d gotten no less than twenty messages, and nearly half of them seemed to be from Éponine alone. He groaned as another message dinged in before picking it up and throwing it against the wall. He ran his hands through his hair before walking over to it and cursed when he saw that it was broken.

He didn’t need anyone to tell him what he said was wrong. He _knew_ that, of course he knew that. Enjolras could be thick, he could be cruel, and he could be slow, but he wasn’t stupid. He didn’t need Éponine’s threats or Jehan’s cool tone of voice to tell him that he should apologize. He _knew_ he had to.

He just didn’t know how.

When it came to speeches, he knew how to rearrange words into powerful sentences that would get nearly everyone to agree with him. The way he spoke and wrote was a talent that many people could only pray to have. But when it came to apologies, he was clueless.

Enjolras wasn’t _good_ at apologies. The one time him and Combeferre got into a fight (and they didn’t speak to each other for _days_ and Courfeyrac never wants to see that happen again because _God_ , Enjolras is awful when he doesn’t have his best friend), he ended up nearly killing himself because he tried to make a cake to apologize to him. He did end up with bad burns and he ended up calling Combeferre and that was the way they apologized—not with words but with actions.

But he needed to say something to Grantaire because he was cruel and he knows it and he’s just really pissed at himself at the moment.

If anyone were to walk into Enjolras’s apartment, the first thing they’d notice would be the shattered phone next to the door. Then they’d notice that everything was in an unusual state of disarray—pillows on the floor, chairs overturned, that sort of thing. Then, maybe, if they chose to walk a little farther, they’d see Enjolras pacing his apartment muttering to himself with a strange look in his eyes.

But of course, no one did enter his apartment. And really, who would want to talk to Enjolras, who had a way of being terrible?

\---

The rest of Les Amis were reacting to the “argument” in different ways.

Éponine was switching between cleaning the apartment compulsively and ranting to Feuilly about how stupid Enjolras could be. She would’ve kept texting Enjolras, but he stole her phone after the eleventh message. Feuilly himself was worried for Grantaire—he knew how R got when he was upset. Gavroche acted nonchalant, but was really hoping everything would turn out okay. Joly was fretting with Bossuet and Musichetta; he was running his hands through his hair and wouldn’t stop tapping his leg. Bossuet was thinking about both of his friends—he knew, just like he knew other things about his friends, that Enjolras was feeling bad. Musichetta looked ready to punch Enjolras in the face, but instead was trying to calm Joly down. Bahorel was walking around to the bars he knew Grantaire frequented. He got along pretty well with the bartenders and asked them to contact him if R showed up. Combeferre was reading, but he desperately wanted to go see if Enjolras need help and if Grantaire was okay. Courfeyrac was messing with things in Combeferre’s apartment. He really couldn’t stay alone right now and messing with things distracted him from worrying about Grantaire. Marius and Cosette were speaking softly to each other about how they could comfort their friends. Jehan was pounding on Grantaire’s door.

“Grantaire, you little shit, I swear to all that is holy, if you don’t open this door I will break it down!” he screamed, punctuating his words with kicks to the door.

Jehan and Grantaire had been friends for as long as Les Amis could remember. The two had met in second grade when Jehan bit a kid for calling him “girly and stupid”. Grantaire walked over to him before the teacher came and announced that it was “the most awesomest thing I’ve ever seen!” The two had been friends ever since.

Grantaire had been the one to comfort Jehan when his mom died in the fifth grade. Jehan had always been the one Grantaire would go to when his father had gotten a little too drunk and a little too physical. Grantaire would always be the first one to read Jehan’s poems. Jehan would see every one of Grantaire’s paintings (and usually, he was the only one). Grantaire and Jehan took boxing lessons together when they were seniors and if they had to choose a fighting partner, it would be the other. Jehan would drink with Grantaire when he first started stealing from his father’s cabinet. Grantaire would always make sure Jehan was okay when he started discovering the darker parts of life.

They came out to each other before anyone else and they liked each other’s company. It wasn’t strange for the rest of the group to see Grantaire braiding Jehan’s hair in the park while he recited some dark poetry or to see Jehan laughing at something Grantaire said while they were both drunk. If Combeferre was Enjolras’s platonic soul mate, then Jehan was Grantaire’s.

So of course Jehan would be the one attempting to single handedly break down Grantaire’s door. He heard Dionysius whining from behind the door before Grantaire opened it. Jehan tutted softly before walking into the apartment and setting Grantaire down on the couch. He curled up next to him and smiled softly when Grantaire rested his head on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, mi querido. If you want, I could go punch the shit out of him.”

Jehan was glad that earned at least a small smile from the other. “Thanks for the offer, Jehan, but I’d rather have Enjolras’s face look the same,” Grantaire sighed, rubbing at his eyes. “Such a lovely face, but he can be an asshole sometimes.”

“He doesn’t mean it. You know Enjolras, sometimes he starts speaking and he can’t stop. But, yeah, he was being an ass,” Jehan agreed. “I’m pretty sure everyone’s on his case about it though. You should’ve seen Éponine after you left. She looked like she was about to castrate him. I think that’s still one of her options,” he mused with a soft smile.

Grantaire lifted his head up with a shocked expression. “Why are they on his case? I was the one riling him up…”

Jehan punched him in the shoulder. “Because you’re our friend, dipshit! God, R, how many times do I have to say that? He was wrong and we all know that. Combeferre even looked angry! We care about you enough to tell Enjolras that he was wrong,” he spoke, sitting up. “We all care about you, whether or not you choose to see it.”

Grantaire rubbed his eyes. “If you say so. Am I allowed to get drunk or would that be a bad idea?”

Jehan laughed before nodding his head. “Let’s just get drunk and we can worry about the consequences tomorrow.”

And get drunk they did.

\---

Enjolras, meanwhile, was researching ways to apologize to people.

He read through pages upon pages and took notes on some of the ways he thought would work more. He read through how-to guides on what to say and what not to say. He found a list of the most cliché ways to apologize. He read through everything and absorbed as much as he could.

He didn’t think that most of them would work (Gift baskets? Flowers?), but he desperately wanted for things to be okay.

So he kept researching and researching and researching.

\---

Grantaire groaned when he heard the doorbell ring. He lifted his head off of… How the hell did he get on the floor? He sat up slowly, rubbing at his head before looking around his apartment.

Bottles were nearly everywhere on the floor, there were a few new paint stains on his curtains, Dionysius was curled up under the coffee table, and Jehan was snoring softly on his couch.

Right.

He nearly forgot about last night. He shook his head, trying to clear his head before grabbing his phone. 7:23. Who the fuck could be at his door at 7:23 in the morning?

He winced as the doorbell rang again. “I’m coming, hold on!” He ran a hand through his hair before standing up and opening the door to his apartment. He blinked at the man who held a bouquet of flowers.

“Are you…” the man glanced down at the note, “Grantaire?”

“That’s me.” Who the hell would be giving him flowers?

The man handed him the bouquet. “The guy didn’t leave a name,” he shrugged, pulling out his clipboard. "Just sign here.”

Grantaire signed, looking at the flowers. “A guy? Did you happen to know what he looked like?”

“Sorry, dude. I just do the deliveries. They’re hyacinths, by the way. Pretty unusual flower. Have a good day,” he said before walking down the hallway.

“Yeah, you too,” Grantaire muttered, going back inside. He glanced at Jehan, who had miraculously gotten up and had already made coffee for them both. He passed R a mug before nodding to the flowers.

“Who’re they from?”

“No fucking clue.”

Jehan inspected the flowers. “They’re hyacinths, right?” Grantaire nodded. “They mean ‘I’m sorry’ or ‘please forgive me’,” he grinned, swallowing an aspirin.

Grantaire sighed. “Seriously? That’s the best he can do? He doesn’t even have the fucking nerve to apologize to my face?”

“We don’t know that yet. Maybe it’s part of some elaborate plan to ask for forgiveness.”

Grantaire snorted. “I’ll believe _that_ when I see it.” He took an aspirin as well before reaching down and petting his greyhound’s head. “What do you want to do for breakfast?”

Jehan shrugged, sitting back down on the couch. “Do you think Chinese delivers this early?” he wondered out loud.

“Well, if it’s anything like when we were in high school, probably. So Chinese and bad movies?”

Jehan grinned. “Just like old times.”

\---

Enjolras knocked nervously on Combeferre’s door. When he opened, Combeferre had to pause because what he saw now did not look like his best friend.

Enjolras looked _tired_. Combeferre had seen him nearly pass out from exhaustion, and he had never looked as tired as he did now. His blonde hair was sticking up, looking as if he’d run his hands through it multiple times. He was wearing a pair of red pajama pants and a white tee shirt. Combeferre knew something was wrong because Enjolras always left his apartment looking put-together, unless something was bothering him. Enjolras’s eyes looked vaguely red and he smiled hesitantly at his friend.

“Can I come in?”

Combeferre shook his head to stop his train of thought. “Of course you can. You don’t need to ask,” he replied, pushing the door open more to let him in.

Enjolras walked in, sitting down on ‘Ferre’s couch before groaning loudly and holding his head in his hands.

“Are you alright, Enjolras?”

“I don’t know what to do,” he groaned again, not looking up. “I researched and nothing seems to feel right. I don’t know how to apologize to him and I want to so badly because I messed up and I just… What do I do?”

Combeferre paused. “Right, well, Courfeyrac’s on his way. Do you want tea or hot chocolate?” he questioned, glancing at his friend before walking into the kitchen. He heard him lean back more on the couch.

“Hot chocolate,” he said quietly, not sounding very much like Enjolras.

Combeferre made it easily enough; he’d been making it since he was first allowed to cook. It was what he made whenever one of his friends were upset.

“No need to fear, Courfeyrac is here!” their loud friend announced as he entered, tossing his bag onto the floor and jumping onto the space next to Enjolras. “Well, don’t you look happy?”

Enjolras groaned loudly, kicking him. “I’m not in the mood.”

“Easy, now. We’re all friends here,” Combeferre said, placing a cup of cocoa into each of his friends’ hands before sitting on Enjolras’s other side. “Mind explaining to us why you showed up looking the most disheveled I’ve seen since I met you?”

Enjolras sat up slowly, running a hand through his hair. “I can’t figure out a good way to apologize to him. I tried researching,” here Courfeyrac snorted, “and I already sent him flowers and I think a fruit basket is going to show up later today but I don’t know what else to do.”

Courfeyrac choked on his hot chocolate. “You sent him _flowers_?”

Enjolras shifted uncomfortably. “It’s what the websites said to do.”

Combeferre shrugged; he did have a point. “It would work, if he actually believed those sorts of actions.”

Enjolras looked startled. “What do you mean?”

Courfeyrac groaned. “Dude, you have to talk to him. Grantaire thinks differently, believe me. He’ll think that you’re sending him gifts because someone made you or because you ‘have’ to. You gotta use your words or else he’s just never going to believe you,” he explained, downing half of the hot chocolate in one go.

“But I don’t know what to say around him,” Enjolras nearly whispered. “Everything I think, I say differently and I just… I don’t know what to do,” he groaned, leaning into Combeferre’s shoulder. He was more frustrated then they’d thought. “I have to say more than ‘I’m sorry’ and I know what I want to say I just can’t word it _right_.”

“Enjolras, calm down. Look, Grantaire isn’t that needy of a person. He’d probably just accept a simple ‘I’m sorry’ but he deserves more than that,” Courfeyrac said, a hand on Enjolras’s shoulder. “Just relax for a bit, and you can try writing it out later like you do for an essay. Then you can revise and do all the other stuff you do like when you’re writing a paper for Lamarque’s class.”

Enjolras sighed. “Well, it’s better than anything I could come up with.” He was quiet for a moment. “Thank you guys for, you know, not giving me shit about Grantaire. You guys were one of the few who weren’t texting me about him,” he said softly, sipping at his hot chocolate.

“Enjolras, we learned a long time ago that berating you constantly just doesn’t work,” Combeferre spoke, smiling softly. “And I think we both realize you feel awful about what you said.”

“I do! Of course I do.”

“Good. Now, do you want to try writing now, or do you want to wait until later?”

Enjolras sank down more into the couch. “Can we just watch a movie or something? I’d probably write better later.”

Courfeyrac went to put in a movie.

\---

**Text from Bahorel: dude u still comin out with us tonite???**   
**Text from Bossuet: every1s meetin @ musain. stop by if u want**   
**Text from Éponine: taire if you don’t come there’s no one stopping me from punching him in the face**   
**Text from Éponine: okay so I won’t hit him but still. come out with us**

Grantaire sighed, reading through his messages.

It was kind of his friends to offer, but, no, he really didn’t want to go out. He knew Enjolras would be there and he really didn’t know if he could handle that face to face interaction. Half of him wanted to hit him in the face and the other half just wanted to curl up and never speak to him again. He figured it’d probably be easier to do the latter.

**Text to Bahorel: nah. i think ill stay in.**   
**Text to Bossuet: thanks for the offer. i think im staying in tonight.**   
**Text to Éponine: don’t hit him, ep. ill be at my place all night**

He turned to Jehan who was curled up on the end of the couch, phone in hand.

“You should go. I know they’re texting you,” Grantaire said, leaning back and picking up his sketch book to work on the sketch of Jehan.

Jehan turned to him, assessing Grantaire quietly. “You’ll be okay? I can tell Courf I’m hanging with you…”

Grantaire waved him off. “No, go. I’ll be fine.” He gave a small smile.

Jehan hesitated, halfway standing up. “You sure? Don’t you lie to me.”

“I’m okay, really. This helped. Go have fun. Drink one for me,” he grinned, motioning Jehan towards the door.

Jehan sighed, before grabbing his coat and his keys. He paused by the door. “Text me if you need anything.” Grantaire nodded, rolling his eyes. “And maybe try texting Enjolras? Just think about it,” he finished quietly, before leaving the apartment.

Grantaire blinked once. He shook his head. No, he definitely would _not_ be texting Enjolras. If the asshole wanted to talk, Enjolras could text him first.

He picked up Jehan’s half-finished beer, downing it, before turning back to his sketch book. He flipped passed the half-complete sketch of his friend, before starting a new piece.

It started off as just a very familiar table. The table where they all sat every week without fail; the one where they laughed, and drank, and argued, and lived. Then faces and bodies were added; each of his friends caught in a moment. Feuilly, Bahorel, and Éponine were laughing together. Joly was in a chair cuddling with Bossuet, grinning at something he said. Marius was listening to what Courfeyrac was saying while Cosette was discussing something with Combeferre. Enjolras was working at his laptop, a very small, fond smile on his face. Musichetta was passing out drinks, frozen next to Cosette with a thoughtful look on her face. They were all surrounded by light; soft yellows and oranges decorating the space around them.

And in the corner there was a small figure, smiling sadly while sipping at a bottle. Grantaire drew himself clouded by darkness, desperately wishing to be part of the light.

\---

The Musain was, regrettably, closed so the group went to another café/bar called the Corinth. They tended to visit it when their regular meet-up was closed or when they got kicked out. Everyone was on edge that evening, remembering how their two friends fought. Their discussions were quieter, their laughter was quieter; the Corinth itself seemed to pick up on the tension and was quiet.

Jehan and Éponine were pointedly not talking to Enjolras. They weren’t avoiding him, but not talking to him seemed to control their urge of punching him in the face. Courfeyrac was switching between telling stories to the group and whispering with Combeferre and Enjolras. The rest of the group was talking with each other, nervously glancing towards their leader.

Enjolras was trying to work on the apology, but he couldn’t help but glance up at the door every time it opened, only to be disappointed when it wasn’t Grantaire.

“I already asked Jehan. He’s not coming,” Courfeyrac whispered to him, frowning softly when Enjolras leaned back in his chair.

“That’s…,” he sighed. “Alright,” he murmured, trying to focus back on the paper.

He couldn’t help but look up when the door opened again.

\---

**Text from Jehan: He keeps looking at the door**   
**Text from Jehan: He gets this sad little look on his face when it’s not you**   
**Text from Jehan: It’s really quite sad. He’s been quiet the whole time**   
**Text from Jehan: I do believe he’s pouting.**

Grantaire snorted. Jehan must be more drunk then when he left. Enjolras doesn’t _pout_.

**Text to Jehan: how drunk r u? why would he care if im there or not?**

Grantaire picked up his paint brush again when the doorbell rang. He groaned loudly before sighing and walking to the door.

“Grantaire?” questioned the second delivery man of the day. He nodded. “I’ve got a fruit basket for you. The sender wished to remain anonymous,” the guy explained, handing over a very large basket.

Grantaire blinked, before closing his eyes and sighing again. “Right. Thank you.” He signed the man’s paper before taking the gift back inside.

He glared at it for a moment before reading the card attached.

_I’m sorry. Really sorry._

Grantaire collapsed on the couch. He wasn’t drunk enough for this.

\---

“Combeferre? I think I finished,” Enjolras said to his friend, passing him the finished paper.

Combeferre glanced at his friend. Enjolras was much more withdrawn than normal; he hardly spoke a word to the group. He read over the letter quickly. “It’s good, but you don’t sound very sincere. Don’t write so formally; he is a friend,” Combeferre murmured, handing him back the paper. He sighed softly at his friend’s face. “Just… Say what you feel, Enjolras. You sound like you’re trying to write another essay,” he said softly.

Enjolras sighed but nodded once, looking at the paper again. “What if…” he shook his head. “Never mind,” he muttered, looking down.

Combeferre placed his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Everything will turn out okay,” he spoke, a comforting smile on his face.

Enjolras nodded once and let Combeferre go back to talking with Feuilly. He sighed, running a hand over his face, before taking out his phone. Luckily, it still worked, only the screen was shattered. He scrolled through his contacts, pausing over the picture of Grantaire. He seemed to just think “fuck it” before clicking it and typing out a text.

**Text to Grantaire: I’m sorry. I really am.**   
**Text to Grantaire: You didn’t deserve that.**

Enjolras sighed, picking up his pen and working on his apology.

\---

**Text from Enjolras: I’m sorry. I really am.**   
**Text from Enjolras: You didn’t deserve that.**

Grantaire snorted, looking at his phone. He finished off his (what was it now? Fourth? Fifth?) beer before tossing his phone to the other end of the couch.

Since Jehan had left, Grantaire had started no less than five different sketches. One was of Éponine, black hair flowing back as she laughed. Another was of Éponine and Gavroche wrapped up in a hug, her lip split and a frown on the kid’s face.

He remembered that moment; it was after one of the first protests she’d gone to. He didn’t really remember what it was for, but he knew it had gotten violent very quickly. Everyone was shaken up quite a bit, and Éponine had immediately hugged her brother when she got back to the café. (Musichetta had agreed to watch him while she was working). It was one of the few times the kid accepted a hug.

And the rest, well, three guesses to who they were of.

He groaned, pushing his sketch book away, before standing and walking to his kitchen. He pulled out his last bottle of whiskey (he’d have to get more tomorrow) and taking a large drink. He collapsed back down onto the couch and patted Dionysius’s head absent-mindedly. “To yet another night drunk off my ass,” he sighed, toasting to no one. His dog whined softly. “At least I’ll have you,” he smiled softly.

\---

Enjolras couldn’t sleep.

He couldn’t help but think of Éponine’s threats, Jehan’s glares, and the way Grantaire looked after Enjolras insulted him like that. He hated seeing Grantaire’s face as he packed up his stuff, and Enjolras had just been feeling awful and heavy and just bad since then.

He groaned, sitting up and holding his head. He obviously wouldn’t be getting any sleep tonight. He got out of bed, and pulled on a pair of jeans, a hoodie, and some shoes. He left his apartment and locked the door behind him.

Walking always seemed to clear his head. When he was a teenager, he’d often sneak out when he was too focused about homework, or his clubs, or his parents. The night sky would just relax him. At night, no one knew who he was. He was just another nameless face that walked the streets. People passed by; some in a hurry, some half-drunk, some simply strolling like him.

Enjolras walked for a while, and after a while, he somehow found himself at Grantaire’s apartment.

He paused at the doorway. He couldn’t hear anything from inside. There was no light coming from the crack where the door met the floor. He lifted up his hand to knock before shaking his head and sighing. He rested his head on Grantaire’s door.

“I’m really sorry,” he whispered to the silence.

He then straightened up, and walked away without looking back.

\---

Grantaire groaned loudly at the sound of his phone going off. He pushed aside the bowls of popcorn and empty bottles before picking it up. He had 5 missed messages.

**Text from Jehan: He’s heading home… He looks like a kicked puppy.**   
**Text from Bossuet: next time u should come hang with us. it was quieter w/o u**   
**Text from Éponine: enj looks like shit. dude has he apologized yet?**   
**Text from Combeferre: He really is sorry. Talk to him.**   
**Text from Enjolras: Are you free this morning? I’d like to talk.**

Grantaire snorted at the last message. He really did _not_ want to see Enjolras today. As if on cue, another text message popped in.

**Text from Jehan: Courf said Enjolras wanted to meet you for breakfast. If you say no I will kill you.**

Grantaire groaned.

**Text to Jehan: do i have to go?**   
**Text from Jehan: Yes. If you don’t, you’ll only make things worse.**   
**Text to Jehan: fine. but if this ends badly im blaming u**

Grantaire sat up, running a hand through his hair before replying to Enjolras’s text.

**Text to Enjolras: im not doing anything.**   
**Text from Enjolras: Good. Do you want to meet at the Musain in 15?**   
**Text to Enjolras: whatever works for u dear leader**   
**Text from Enjolras: I’ll see you there then.**

Grantaire stood up and stretched before going to find clean clothes. He should probably shower, but he didn’t particularly care that much. He tugged on some jeans that seemed to be the cleanest, but were still flecked with paint, and pulled his green hoodie on over his tee shirt. He didn’t bother to brush his hair and popped an aspirin before turning to his apartment.

_I’ll clean it later._

He sighed before walking out and taking the short walk to the Musain. It was a rather nice day; there was a bit of a breeze, but it was comfortable enough and the sun was shining. He sighed when he got to the door.

Through the windows, he could see Enjolras in a corner booth with his head down on the table. His arms were stuck in his hair and there was a coffee in front of him and on the other side of the table. Grantaire straightened up before entering.

The bell tinged and Musichetta smiled encouragingly at him when he walked towards Enjolras. He sat down heavily, picking up the coffee.

Enjolras lifted his head slowly and blinked at him. “You came,” he said, sounding surprised.

Grantaire grunted and shifted in his chair. “Yeah. I don’t really like lying,” he replied, not looking at him.

He could hear Enjolras sit up more and sigh. “I… I owe you an apology, Grantaire. It was rude of me to say that.”

Grantaire snorted. “It’s true though. I do make a waste of myself.”

Enjolras seemed hurt. “You don’t! I mean, yeah, sometimes you drink too much and it worries me, but you always come to the meetings even though you don’t believe in anything we do. And you’re a good friend, I mean, I don’t like to think where Jehan would be if it wasn’t for you. And you always help Éponine with Gavroche or work. It was wrong and I didn’t mean what I said,” he spoke quickly, moving his hands around.

Grantaire blinked, a warm feeling settling in his chest. He coughed slightly, but smiled. “Well, I guess apology accepted? Although, I should take part of the blame. I was the one riling you up.”

Enjolras shook his head. “But you always do that. Not in a bad way! It helps with my speeches; makes them stronger. But what I said was cruel and I am sorry.”

Grantaire placed a hand on top of Enjolras’s. “Relax. Apology accepted.” He smiled at him, before pulling his hand away.

Enjolras seemed relieved, and he relaxed. “I’m glad. I don’t like making my friends upset.”

Grantaire could only smile at that before Musichetta came with a plate of pancakes for both of them. “No, put your money away, Enj. These are on the house,” she grinned, before walking up and Grantaire just sort of expected she’d be texting her boys.

They chatted as they ate and when they were finished, they chatted some more.

When they had to leave, both boys had small smiles on their faces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this was a long one. I actually did Google "how to apologize" to figure out some of the ideas. I hoped you enjoyed! The first part of the build to E/R is done :)


	11. Becoming Les Amis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little back story on how Les Amis became Les Amis.

Most people would assume Les Amis grew up together.

It was a safe bet—they all acted like they were a family. Sometimes other students would see them without the rest and they’d blink a couple of times simply because it was so strange to see them apart. Even the professors sometimes would glance at one of them alone and it would take a moment for them to recognize him or her.

The group spent most of their time with each other; it might’ve been a problem, but no one really cared that much. No matter how close they were, the group didn’t officially become a group until college. But little groups of them had known each other for much, much longer.

This is how they met.

\---

Enjolras scowled as his mother ran another hand through his hair. She frowned when she saw his face.

“C’mon honey, I just want you to look good for your first day of first grade!” she smiled, continuing to walk with him to his bus stop.

“You’re messing it up!” he frowned, swinging his lunch box. “You don’t gotta touch it anymore.”

“Have to,” his mother said absent-mindedly. “You don’t _have to_ touch it anymore.”

Enjolras scowled again but smiled when they got to the stop. “Is it gonna be one of the yellow ones? The big ones?” he questioned, glancing at the few amount of other children at his stop.

His mother nodded before smiling and talking to another mother.

Enjolras sighed impatiently, looking around the corners to see when the bus would come. He was excited, although, he was upset that he wouldn’t get to see some of his friends from daycare. Mainly, he’d miss his teacher, Miss Jo. She was nice.

“Mom, let go, the bus is here!” he shouted, tugging on her arm as the bus started pulling up.

“Caleb, Caleb, _stop_. Stop pulling,” she said, leaning down towards him. “Alright, you have a good day, okay? I don’t want any phone calls. Have fun!”

Enjolras waved and walked onto the bus.

It was a lot bigger than he thought it’d be.

He quickly sat down on an empty seat, pulling his backpack onto his lap. Now that he was actually on the bus, he wasn’t as excited as he used to be. There were big kids and it was loud and he didn’t really know any of them. He glanced nervously between the window and the seats behind him when the bus reached another stop. More kids got on and one of them, about his age, looked at the open space around him.

“Can… Can I sit with you?” the boy questioned.

Enjolras smiled and nodded and scooted over towards the window.

The boy was wearing a blue button-down shirt with jean shorts and really cool light-up sneakers. But he thought the coolest thing he had was the glasses. They were black and he really wished he had glasses.

The boy blinked at him when the bus started again before smiling (Enjolras noticed he was missing a tooth). “I’m Zachary Combeferre. Are you in Miss Powell’s class?”

Enjolras nodded. “Yeah! I got her, too! Mom says she gives really cool stickers,” he grinned, swinging his feet. “Oh, I’m Caleb Enjolras.”

The two talked with each other until they got to their classroom.

\---

“Why do you play with flowers? Flowers are for girls!”

Little Jean Prouvaire blinked up to the boys standing above him. They were bigger than him, but everyone was bigger than him so that really didn’t matter. They had the cool light-up sneakers that he had begged for all Christmas. Instead, he got the boring kind with no cool designs or anything.

“But flowers are pretty!” he protested, looking down where he was sitting in a buttercup patch. He always thought his mama looked really pretty with flowers in her hair—his daddy would smile and kiss her cheek when she had lots of them in. Sometimes she’d tuck a flower behind his ear and then hug him tightly and say, “Look, now we match!” He liked matching with his mama.

One boy snorted. “ _Girls_ are supposed to be pretty. Are you a girl? Is that why you like flowers?”

“Maybe you should wear dresses instead! Dresses are for girls!”

Jehan frowned. They weren’t being very nice. He tried to ignore them like his daddy said he should, but when he went to pick another flower, they laughed.

“Look, he’s such a girl!”

He didn’t really remember much but the next thing he knew the kid was screaming and he had a hand in his mouth.

“YOU BIT ME! I’M TELLING!” he cried, before they all ran off to find Miss Jefferson. Jehan watched them go before turning back to his flowers and sticking a third one behind his ear.

He blinked up when someone tapped his shoulder. Another boy, with curly black hair, blue eyes, and ripped jeans was smiling at him. “That was really cool! That might’ve been the most awesomest thing I’ve ever seen!” the boy grinned, speaking quickly.

Jehan smiled, before he hesitatingly patted the grass next to him. “Do you wanna pick flowers with me?” he asked shyly, hoping this boy wouldn’t pick on him too.

“Okay!” he smiled, before sitting next to him and picking some up too.

“I’m Jehan,” he smiled, plucking a few petals off of one.

“My name’s Thane, but I don’t like it that much. You can call me R, that’s what my sister calls me,” the boy said, scowling at the mention of his name.

“Okay,” Jehan replied, waiting for the teacher to come like he knew she would.

\---

Feuilly sat on the sidewalk in front of his new house, pouting. He didn’t _want_ to leave home. Why did they have to leave just because mom was having another baby? It was stupid. He missed his friends.

“C’mon, baby, you’ll like it here, I promise. You get a bigger room and there’s a big backyard and there’s a playground just up the street. There are lots of other kids here, more than back at the old house. You’ll like it here,” his mother smiled, placing a hand on her belly. “Don’t you want to go see your room?”

He shook his head. He wanted his old room. It had a cool painting of a forest. It even had cool centaurs and glow-in-the-dark star stickers! His new room didn’t have that.

His mom let out a breath. “Alright. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me, okay? Daddy’s unpacking the boxes so don’t bother him. You’ll like it here,” she repeated, rubbing his head before walking inside.

Feuilly scowled, pressing an ant into the concrete. “I won’t like it here. I won’t. It’s weird and the houses are all the same and none of my friends are here and I won’t like it here.” He continued crushing ants as he spoke.

He was pouting when another kid stood in front of him. He blinked up at the boy.

“You’re new here. I’m Tyler Bahorel and I’m bored. Let’s go to the park,” the boy said, tugging on Feuilly’s arm.

He paused for a moment. “Okay. MOM I’M GOING TO THE PARK!” he shouted as the boy tugged him down towards the park.

“You got Old Man Mitchel’s house. Suzanne said he died there, but Suzanne’s a liar. But Dylan said so too, so I guess he did. You’ll have to tell me if there are any ghosts, okay?”

Feuilly smiled. “Okay.”  

\---

Courfeyrac was really not enjoying middle school. The few friends he had weren’t in any of his classes and he _hated_ English and sixth grade was not as cool as he thought it’d be and he just wanted to go home.

But he couldn’t so he was stuck in a classroom—his English one and he dreaded the class because it was so _boring_ —with people he didn’t know and he might have been panicking slightly. He was a little grateful for the assigned seats though. It spared him the trouble of trying to find a good seat.

He was in the middle of the room, which was good, he guessed. He wasn’t in the front where he’d have to pay attention constantly and he wasn’t in the back where he wouldn’t be able to see. He pulled out his binder and the other things he’d need before relaxing in his seat as other people started entering.

Courfeyrac glanced at the nametag of the person who he was supposed to be sitting next to. It just said “Z. Combeferre”. He hoped the kid would be alright. He didn’t really want to deal with anyone annoying. He tapped his pencil on the desk, glancing around the room as more people entered. The person who he assumed to be “Z. Combeferre” (he did sit down next to him) looked friendly enough. He was wearing a plaid button-down with dark jeans and black glasses. He was talking to a blonde boy who was standing near him and Courfeyrac felt awkward. He just wanted it to be summer again.

“Alright, everyone find your seats now,” the teacher said, shutting the door as the bell rang. The blonde haired kid sighed, before walking towards his desk. Courfeyrac glanced at Combeferre (that’s what he’d call him—he didn’t know his first name) and hoped he was somewhat good in English. He’d need all the help he could get.

“So, I’m Mrs. Jasper and I’m your English teacher this year. I’m really excited to get to know all of you guys, and I hope you guys are excited to get to know me and each other. So, while I take attendance, I want you to turn to the person sitting next to you and tell them your name, your favorite book, and what you’re most looking forward to this year,” she said with a smile, walking to her desk and picking up a clipboard.

The two boys turned to each other and Combeferre spoke first. “I’m Zachary Combeferre, there’s no way I could pick a favorite book, and I’m excited to learn even more,” he said with a smile. Right. Okay. He was one of those kids that liked to learn.

Courfeyrac let out a small smile. “I’m James Courfeyrac, um, I like _Harry Potter_ , and I, uh, want to learn how to use a locker,” he said quietly, playing with his sleeves.

Combeferre grinned. “I really like _Prisoner of Azkaban_ so far. I can’t wait until the fifth one comes out!” he said excitedly, pressing his glasses up his nose. Courfeyrac grinned and continued talking about Harry Potter with him until class continued.

When class ended and they were packing up their things, Combeferre said to him, “You should sit with me at lunch.”

Courfeyrac shrugged. “Okay,” he said, pulling on his backpack.

The other boy smiled at him before waving over his blonde friend. “Enjolras! Come on, let’s go to lunch!” he called.

The other boy walked over with a small frown on his face. “I don’t like her,” he said to his friend, adjusting his straps.

Combeferre sighed a bit. “When have you ever liked a teacher?” he questioned, grabbing his bag. He turned to Courfeyrac. “Courfeyrac, this is Enjolras. Enjolras, Courfeyrac. Do you mind if he sits with us for lunch?”

Enjolras looked at Courfeyrac for a moment. He then shrugged. “I don’t care. Come on then,” he said, walking out of the classroom. Combeferre shook his head before following.

Courfeyrac grinned. He liked them.

\---

“Alright, so for group five, we need Martinez, Johnson, Dela Cruz, Dupont, Joly, Green, and Evans!” one senior shouted.

Joly stood up quickly, grabbing the papers he had gotten when he arrived at freshman orientation. He was definitely _not_ excited for school. There were too many people and the school was disgusting and all he really wanted to do was go home. Or just skip and go straight to college. He sighed and followed the other people to the door where two older kids were standing.

“Alright guys, let’s get to the classroom and then we can give introductions, alright?” said the red-headed girl with a smile. She nodded to the guy standing next to her before turning around and leading them down the hall.

Joly trailed behind, glancing around at the hallways he would inevitably get lost in. He looked up suddenly when he heard a crash.

The girl sighed and shook her head.

“It’s alright! I’m okay! I just tripped again,” the boy laughed, brushing himself off.

“That’s him for you. Always tripping over nothing, this one. Ever since he was a freshman,” she grinned, bumping his shoulder and waving them into a classroom.

“That’s been going on long before I was a freshman,” he said cheerfully as Joly was the last to enter the room.

Joly felt awkward. Everyone else seemed to know each other. He had just moved and even though he begged and pleaded with his parents, nothing could make them stay. So he had packed up and moved _states_ just because his father got a new job.

He stood to the side as the rest of the group talked to each other. He scratched his arm nervously and just looked around the room.

“You look nervous. Don’t worry, it’s not that bad here. No matter what the reputation may say,” the boy said.

Joly gave a small smile. “I wouldn’t know any reputations. I just moved here,” he said, looking up at him. (He had nice eyes, Joly thought. And he really liked his smile).

He grinned. “Well, good. You’ll be one of the few unbiased people here. And you’ll get to know people quick enough. It’s a pretty small school.”

“Yeah but everyone’s known each other since they were in elementary school, right?”

He shrugged. “Now you’re just looking for the negatives. C’mon, new people, new faces! You can’t not be excited!”

Joly sighed, before smiling. The other boy had an infectious personality. “Well, I’ll try to get excited, I guess. I’m Christopher Joly, by the way,” he said to the other boy.

“I’m Lesgle, but you can call me Bossuet. For some reason, everyone else does,” he smiled.

“C’mon, Bossuet, I can’t do this on my own!” the girl called, sighing a bit.

Bossuet smiled at him. “I’ve been called. Get excited. Go talk to someone!” he encouraged Joly before helping his friend.

Joly couldn’t stop smiling.

\---

Éponine leaned against the wall, scratching her head.

God, she hated this place.

The only thing that made school a little bearable was the fact that no one dared mess with her. Partly because she hung out with Montparnasse and his assholes, but the school was also weary of her. She gave off an aura that she could take anyone in a fight and win. (It wasn’t wrong).

She glanced around languidly, watching different people rush to class. (It was science this block. She didn’t really need science). She let out a breath, wishing she nicked some of her parent’s cigarettes before she left.

She leaned her head back, closing her eyes as the people rushed around.

She was caught off guard when someone tapped her on the shoulder.

“Leave me the fu—.” She paused.

The boy in front of her was screaming “new kid” with his messenger bag and schedule in hand. He was pretty enough, she supposed, giving him a once over. Yes, he was definitely cute.

She smiled at him with her most charming smile. “Sorry, I thought you were someone else. Whatcha need?” she questioned, pushing off the wall.

The boy grinned at her gratefully. “Do you know where room 714 is?” he questioned, holding up his schedule.

She sighed internally. She was going to science after all, then. “Yeah, I’ve got that next too. This way,” she smiled, pushing through people.

He followed after her, babbling away thanks and apologies.

“No need to be sorry, dude. You’re new, don’t stress,” she smiled, making sure he hadn’t gotten lost.

“Marius,” he blinked. “I’m Marius.”

Éponine smiled. _Marius_. Marius was a definite cutie.

“Éponine. Now, let’s go to the hell of a class known as science.”

\---

Grantaire put his head on the desk, ignoring the groups of people around him. He wondered how long until he could leave. He still wasn’t over the fact that Jehan wasn’t at the same school as him, even though it had been a year.

_“You’ll be fine, R. High school’s gonna suck, but we still live pretty close by,” Jehan said, pushing a flower behind his ear._

_“That’s why I’m pissed. We live so close but you still go to a completely different school,” he replied, scratching his head. “It isn’t fair.”_

_“Of course it isn’t,” Jehan said, pursing his lips. “But freshman year can’t be that bad.”_

Grantaire remembered that conversation from last year; their final day of summer before school started again. Jehan was wrong. Freshman year was fucking awful without him. But sophomore year wasn’t going that badly. (Now he’d done it. He jinxed himself).

“Yes, tell Enjolras to relax, I’ll be there. I’ll just be a little late because of soccer. Yeah, talk to you later ‘Ferre!”

Grantaire groaned. That dude (Coufrac? Courfec? Something like that) was always so loud, and his head was pounding and _no one should be that loud that early in the morning_.

He felt someone drop into the seat next to him. He didn’t bother lifting his head.

“So do you have a headache, are you tired, or just pissed at the world?” said a cheerful voice.

Grantaire groaned internally before lifting his head slowly. Of fucking course it was. “All three,” he replied shortly, rubbing his temples.

Coufrac or whatever his name was frowned at him before smiling again. “Well, I’ll try to keep it down, but you could probably get some Advil or something from the nurse.”

Grantaire didn’t reply and simply placed his head down on the desk again.

This was going to be a long class.

\---

Enjolras was pacing.

It was nearing 6 o’clock and _no one was here yet_.

“Enjolras, stop pacing,” Combeferre said, not looking up from his book. “They still have 5 minutes.”

Enjolras sighed, sitting down on one of the chairs. The café was nice enough, he supposed. He was grateful they let him start his club here. “Is Courfeyrac not coming?” he questioned, taking out his notes once more.

“When has Courfeyrac ever skipped out on something? He’s gathering some friends, I think. The more people he brings the better, I guess,” he replied.

Enjolras nodded, rereading his notes in the silence that passed between them.

A few minutes later, the door opened and a rather large group of people entered.

“Enjolras! I found people,” Courfeyrac called, leading them all towards the back corner where he sat. “They couldn’t exactly find the place from campus. But I found them so, no worries,” he grinned.

Enjolras looked at the group behind him.

There was a tall man with bulging muscles, a thin, red-head, a man with the most ridiculous outfit he’d ever seen (and he knows Courfeyrac) talking to a black-haired man with a bottle, a friendly bald one with a smile chatting to a rather nervous-looking man, and a few others.

Well, this would be interesting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my names really suck, I'm sorry! Many thanks to goldfishtobleroneandamitie for helping me out with some names and ideas! I hope you guys enjoyed and any criticism is greatly appreciated!


	12. Sometimes Things Get Heavy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It had started off peaceful (but when didn’t they start out peaceful?). It wasn’t supposed to end like this. The protest was planned to be simple—a few messages and speeches, no more than seven at the most—and they made sure that they had every permit they needed. But some people got a little too angry and some cops were a little too eager and everything went to hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Mentions of blood, injuries, and deaths.

It had started off peaceful (but when didn’t they start out peaceful?). It wasn’t supposed to end like _this_.

(“This” being each one of them bearing some sort of injury. Everyone has at the least some bruises, and others look much, much worse. Combeferre’s glasses are broken and he’s got a split lip. Courfeyrac’s nose is bleeding and he’s walking funny. Feuilly and Bossuet both have black eyes. Musichetta’s knuckles are bleeding. Cosette looks like she got mauled. Joly’s clutching his wrist to his chest. Éponine’s shoulder might be dislocated. Bahorel’s limping, his knuckles are bleeding, and he’s got a split lip. Some of Jehan’s hair is pulled out. Marius might have broken a finger. Grantaire’s panicking and he hates himself because he didn’t go because someone had to watch Gavroche. Gavroche is strangely quiet and is holding onto his sister’s hand. Enjolras, though, he looks the worst; blood is dripping down his face, he’s got a split lip, a bloody nose, and he’s limping.)

This protest was planned to be simple—a few messages and speeches, no more than seven at the most—and they made sure that they had every permit they needed. But some people got a little too angry and some cops were a little too eager and everything went to hell.

So now they’re at a little café a few streets away, and everyone is quietly worrying over each other and no one really questions it when Bossuet suggests they go to the hospital. They just all follow each other, each one holding _someone’s_ hand. They pile in to different cars, each a little tense and worried. They all go and get various things checked and they’re all supporting each other.

And when they’re done and everyone turns out to be okay (Marius didn’t have a broken finger, only dislocated), Courfeyrac quietly offers for everyone to go back to his place. They all just hold onto one another tighter.

No one could say no.

\---

“You okay, bud?” Éponine whispers to her brother on the car ride back to Courf’s. They’re in Feuilly’s car, and she sees him glance back at them every time they stop. Éponine throws him a weak smile the next time he does and curls around her brother more. Gavroche is still holding her hand, and she’s grateful he hasn’t let go.

He shrugs after a moment. “Everyone looked so bad. Everyone was quiet and even Courfeyrac wasn’t smiling. I don’t like seeing you guys hurt,” he mumbles, turning to face the window. He wouldn’t admit it, but he was scared when Joly raced through the doors of the Musain, clutching at his wrist and screaming about “chaos” and “things got out of hand”. He watched Grantaire panic, and he would’ve gone to find them if he didn’t know it’d make Grantaire panic more. So he waited for everyone to come back—bruised and bloody and partly broken—and he was scared.

Éponine nearly cries at this because no matter how much he pretends to not care, he _does_ ; he cares and he loves them all. She just squeezes his hand in reply.

\---

Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta are curled as close as they can be in the back seat of Combeferre’s car. No one’s really saying anything, but they’re gripping each other’s hands like they were on their deathbed. Joly’s arm is in a sling and Musichetta frowns whenever she sees it. Joly hasn’t panicked at all today (forgetting the period right after the protest went to hell when they couldn’t find Bossuet anywhere), so Bossuet had taken over the fretting for the day. He was running his thumb over Musichetta’s knuckles and tutting every time Joly winced because of his arm.

It’s quiet, and they’re breathing each other in, just grateful that they’re all (mostly) okay. They barely hear Combeferre whisper something to Bahorel. The cars are passing them like any other day, and they all wish it was just like any other day. Then maybe they wouldn’t be so hurt.

“I love you,” Bossuet murmurs to them, curling around them even tighter.

\---

“That looks painful,” Courfeyrac says softly to Jehan, who’s in the passenger seat just a few inches away from him.

Jehan’s tracing the space on the back of his head where there was no longer hair. Luckily, the spot could be easily covered, and it doesn’t hurt as bad as it did earlier. He smiles softly at Courfeyrac and hugs himself. “It’s better now, but it really hurt when the bastard yanked it out,” he replies, sighing a bit. He vaguely remembers the moment when he had gotten too close to the officers. One tried to grab him and ended up, rather violently, ripping out his hair. He glances over to Courf. “Your nose has stopped bleeding.”

Courfeyrac briefly touches a hand to his nose. “I’m just grateful it wasn’t broken. Those things fucking hurt,” he says, remembering one rather painful moment from high school.

They don’t glance at Grantaire or Enjolras in the back seat, so they don’t notice the way Grantaire’s legs are shaking or how Enjolras’s hand ever so slowly reaches for Grantaire’s.

The car is quiet once more.

\---

Marius wants to reach over and kiss every one of Cosette’s bruises but he can’t because he’s driving and he can’t just pull over; the street is busy tonight. So instead, he grips onto her hand and presses kisses to it every once in a while. He doesn’t regret going to the protest, but he does regret the fact that he allowed her to be hurt.

“I can hear you thinking,” she says lightly, turning towards him. She’s sore and stiff all over, but she’s okay now because everyone she loves is fine.

He sighs and presses another kiss to her hand. “You’re hurt,” is all he offers in reply.

“I am hurt,” she agrees. “But I’ll be fine. You don’t need to worry about me. I’m okay, Marius, really.” She smiles softly at him and Marius melts.

He melts because he’s in love with this beautiful girl; this girl who can stand up for herself and physically force people out of her way, but who also loves the color pink and loves her dresses and will do anything to make people happy. She’s sweet, she’s lovely, she’s powerful, she’s strong, and he’s absolutely, utterly in love.

But he doesn’t say any of this.

He just kisses her hand again and grips it tighter, a smile on his face.

\---

Grantaire is shaking and he still can’t believe that his friends are hurt. (That _Enjolras_ is hurt). He’s shaking and he still doesn’t know if his breathing’s back to normal and he just can’t stop thinking about it.

_“I win again!” Gavroche shouts, throwing his fist in the air._

_“Goddammit kid, how are you so good?” Grantaire demands as he loses yet another game of cards._

_The kid smirks. “The world will never know,” he says, dealing out for the next round. Grantaire mutters to himself and sips from his bottle, but he’s smiling. The kid’s good company when he’s not purposely causing anything._

_They’re about halfway through the next round when the door slams open and both their heads turn to the door. Grantaire stands up when he realizes it’s Joly. “Everything’s wrong where is everyone have you seen the news has anyone else stopped in everything’s gone to chaos R everything’s wrong,” Joly shouts, frazzled and nearly crying. It took him a few minutes to calm down before he could explain everything._

_After he leaves to find the others, Grantaire is panicking. “Oh my god. I should’ve gone with them,” he mutters to himself and he doesn’t remember Gavroche is there until the kid’s dragging him to his seat. He’s still panicking when Jehan rushes in, breathing heavily and collapsing next to Gavroche._

_He’s still panicking when Marius enters, followed by Bahorel and Combeferre. He’s still panicking when Cosette and Éponine enter, and Marius goes and kisses Cosette for at least five minutes. He’s still panicking when Joly and Musichetta return and Joly’s panicking because they can’t find Bossuet. He’s still panicking when Feuilly enters and just wraps his arms around Éponine and Gavroche. He’s still panicking when Bossuet finally arrives._

_He nearly cries when Courfeyrac enters, half-carrying a very bloody and bruised Enjolras._

Grantaire snaps out of his thoughts when a warm hand presses against his own. His eyes turn toward Enjolras where he’s stubbornly looking out the window (and maybe his face is just a little redder than normal). He interlocks their fingers and smiles softly before turning to face the window too.

He has a million questions running through his mind right now.

But he doesn’t say a word.

\---

They all arrive at Courfeyrac’s door within minutes of each other. There’s a moment where they don’t do anything at all because he’s unlocking the door. They all walk inside and it’s quiet for a moment more.

Then Jehan walks and hugs Grantaire and everyone’s doing the same.

Cosette, Éponine, and Musichetta are all clutching each other. Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Enjolras seem to talk without saying anything at all. Courfeyrac wraps them in a hug. Feuilly pats Bahorel on the shoulder. Marius hugs Joly and Bossuet. Then Gavroche is wrapped up in a hug by Jehan.

They eventually migrate into the living room, and everyone sits near each other. Legs are pressed against legs, hands are gripping hands, and everyone just breathes each other in.

“ _Sorcerer’s Stone_ , yeah?” Combeferre questions to the group. They all nod as he goes and puts in the movie. It’s their film; the one they watch when they’re upset like this or simply can’t agree on a movie choice. With all their differences and similarities, they all love _Harry Potter_.

Everyone gets switched around and Cosette goes to make hot chocolate. Éponine is pretty much in Feuilly’s lap, with Gavroche pressed beside her. Jehan’s on Gav’s other side, Courfeyrac next to him. Bossuet, Joly, and Musichetta are curled around each other next to him. Combeferre is next to Musichetta with Marius and Cosette on his other side. Bahorel’s next to Cosette with Grantaire and Enjolras next to him.

It’s quiet throughout the movie, with the exception of Combeferre and Courfeyrac quoting quietly under their breaths. No one really minds much; they always quote this movie. No one really minds much when certain people start kissing other people either. It doesn’t last very long, and they all realize it’s comfort and an assurance that they’re safe.

When it’s over and the credits fade, they’re quiet before standing up and helping Courfeyrac pull out the spare mattresses and sleeping bags. They push all the couches out of the way so that every mattress can be next to each other. (No one really wants to be apart from anyone). The mattresses are touching the others, with no space in between. Everyone takes a moment to go take their pain meds or change into pajamas or brush their teeth. (Everyone brings someone with them. Even Gavroche goes and brushes his teeth with Éponine.)

When everyone’s done, they just all grab someone and tug them to a mattress. Bahorel ends up on a mattress of his own. Feuilly, Gavroche, and Éponine are on the next one, with Éponine reaching over Marius’s head to hold Cosette’s hand. On the other side of Cosette is Musichetta, with Joly next to her and Bossuet next to him. Combeferre, Enjolras, and Courfeyrac are on their own, and Jehan and Grantaire take the last one.

It takes a few more reassurances that everyone’s okay before anyone can actually sleep.

\---

_“Everything’s wrong where is everyone have you seen the news has anyone else stopped in everything’s gone to chaos R everything’s wrong.”_

_Joly is screaming and crying and Grantaire’s alone and he doesn’t know what to do. Then Joly’s gone and he’s so lost. Where is everyone?_

_He leaves the place he’s at (he can’t really focus, he’s worried too much) and walks down the street. It looks normal, but he **knows**. Something’s off and he’s just waiting for something bad to happen. And when it does, he has to hold back his vomit. _

_“No, no, no, no, no,” he mumbles, tripping over himself to get to the body. **Bahorel’s** body. “Oh god no,” he chokes, looking down and desperately checking for a pulse. He doesn’t need the lack of a heartbeat to know he’s dead._

_Grantaire stands up shakily and barely gets three feet before he’s holding back vomit again. Marius’s body. And then Bossuet’s body. Feuilly’s. Joly’s._

_He actually does vomit when he gets to Musichetta’s body. He can’t stop crying when he gets to Combeferre’s. Courfeyrac’s. Éponine’s. Even fucking Gavroche is there and he had to stop so he could control his breathing. (His heart hurt more than anything before. The only people who he cared about, gone and dead in front of him.)_

_When he gets to Jehan’s, he sobs for five minutes, just clutching the poet to himself. Jehan was his best friend and he can’t stop sobbing and he’s having a panic attack he knows but he can’t stop because is best friend is **dead**. And he’s clutching his body. _

_After another ten minutes of trying to control his breathing, he shakily stands up. He counts off the bodies he’s seen._

_There’s still one friend left. He just can’t remember who._

_He gives himself hope (which is always a stupid thing to do) and walks a little farther, after shutting Jehan’s eyes. He walks a little ways and doesn’t see anything. But then…_

_“No, no, fuck no, no, no,” he’s screaming then because Enjolras is in front of him and he’s not moving and dear god, why is this happening._

_But when Grantaire gets to him, Enjolras is (miraculously) still breathing. It’s shallow and Grantaire sobs harder because he knows he’s about to watch him die. “Don’t do this, Enjolras, not now. Please… Please,” he begs, and when he doesn’t get anything in reply, he just cries harder. “Don’t leave me alone,” he whispers and he can’t see because of his tears._

Grantaire wakes up with a startled cry. He’s out of breath and is still panicking when he actually looks around the room. Everyone’s there. He counts off everyone. Jehan, Courfeyrac, Enjolras, Combeferre, Bossuet, Joly, Musichetta, Cosette, Marius, Éponine, Gavroche, Feuilly, and Bahorel. Everyone’s okay.

He sighs a breath of relief before lying back down again. He’s not ashamed when he tugs Jehan even closer to himself.

“R? Whatsa matter?” Jehan murmurs, not arguing the movement and simply leaning into him more.

“Nothing, nothing. Go back to sleep,” R says softly, smiling when he feels his friend’s breathing even out.

Everyone’s okay. Everyone he loves is absolutely 100% okay.

And he falls asleep with a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...  
>  I hope the trigger warning at the beginning didn't put you guys off from reading. I just wanted a little fic where they all cuddle and are clingy and needy because everyone's hurt. And we're moving towards ExR, yay!!!  
> I hope you guys enjoyed and I would appreciate some reviews!


	13. Musichetta's Broken Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Musichetta goes through a bad break up, but who says nice things can't come from times of hardship?

Musichetta had her first serious—and serious as in I’m-so-in-love-with-you-I-can-seriously-see-me-with-you-for-the-rest-of-my-life—relationship when she was 20. His name was Alex and they met at her cousin’s wedding. She was one of her cousin’s bridesmaids, and he was one of her fiancé’s groomsmen, and they got paired up. They ended up talking during dinner and they danced together and she hadn’t felt that way about anyone. (She thought the whole “butterflies in your stomach” thing was just a myth.)

They ended up going for lunch the next week. And then dinner the week after. And then for coffee in the morning before Musichetta left for work and Alex went to class. After a month of this “thing”—she didn’t know what it was, but she _liked_ it, she really did—he ended up kissing her on her doorstep like a goddamn romance movie. Then they were together and he started picking her up for date nights and she would kiss him when he left for class and she’d surprise him with cupcakes from that one bakery he loves and it was wonderful.

Musichetta was completely in love and she told him that after four months of dating because she always says what she feels or thinks. She said it to him while they were eating breakfast in the morning, and the best thing was when he smiled and said, “I love you, too.”

Things were wonderful—they each had a key to the other’s apartment, they were friends with the other’s friends, they got along wonderfully with the family, and then suddenly it had been 7 months of them dating and she didn’t know where the time went. (Her cousin, the one that got married, would constantly tease her and question when Alex was going to propose. Musichetta would just grin and shove her in the shoulder.)

And she loved him, she was so in love with him, she couldn’t imagine how things could possibly get better.

Until things went absolutely, 100% wrong.

It started off with her being stood up for a date. (But she forgave him because he was stressed with mid-terms coming up and, really ‘Chetta, it was only one dinner). Then it became arguments. (They never argued; it was one thing she loved about their relationship). Then it moved on to not meeting each other for coffee every morning and not ending phone conversations with “I love you” and she just wondered why things went _wrong_.

Musichetta didn’t notice that every time Alex hung up when he was “with his brothers”, he was holding the hand of a pretty black woman with curly hair and winning smile. She didn’t notice how when he didn’t say “I love you” back, he was murmuring it to her; her with her eyes warm like the coffee they used to get in the morning. She didn’t notice that every time she was stood up for dinner or lunch or brunch, he was with _her_ ; Monica, her name was, and he met her in his quantum mechanics class because she was studying to be an engineer just like he was. Musichetta didn’t notice that every time she was curled up on the couch, utterly alone, he was curled up with her; her who didn’t know anything of the other girl; her who did nothing wrong but fall in love with someone who was already dating another.

Musichetta didn’t know of Monica and Monica didn’t know of her, and Alex thought he’d be able to break up with Musichetta before she ever found out about the other girl.

Until one day, fed up with _everything_ , Musichetta stormed into his apartment, ready to break up with him, only to discover him kissing this pretty young girl. “’Chetta!” he yelped, and Musichetta couldn’t do anything but gape.

“Baby, who’s that?” the pretty girl (and her heart broke; she called him “baby”) said and that was when she realized things wouldn’t be getting better. She dropped the key to his apartment and crossed her arms, hoping she looked strong and not like she was about to break down.

“I want my key back by next week, and I’ll be returning your stuff within the next two,” she said coolly, before walking out of his apartment and sprinting back to hers. It wasn’t until she shut the door that she started crying.

_I cut my bangs with some rusty kitchen scissors._  
 _I screamed his name ‘til the neighbors called the cops._  
 _I numbed the pain at the expense of my liver._  
 _Don’t know what happened next all I know I couldn’t stop._

After way too many moments of being only sad, she got angry. She stood up unsteadily, a few tears still falling, and walked to her bathroom. She stared at herself in the mirror, before punching the wall and letting out a very loud scream that probably woke the baby next door.

She grabbed some scissors and stared at herself for another moment. She then lifted them and cut off a portion of her hair. _Snip_.

She twirled the discarded strand in her fingers, before cutting off another strand. _Snip_. She cut off some of her bangs. _Snip_. Another strand from the back. _Snip_.

She cut until her hair was short and choppy and the complete opposite of what it used to be. It wasn’t anything like the long locks Al— _he_ would run his hands through and say he loved. She grinned (and it wasn’t the lovely grin she normally wore; this grin was heartbroken and slightly insane) before walking to her kitchen and drinking half a bottle of wine in one go.

After another bottle and about two hours of looking at the damn pictures of them her cousin took, she started screaming. She was loud and angry and she couldn’t stop yelling and tugging at her hair.

She ignored the angry Spanish shouts from next door and the knocks on the door as she cried and screamed and drank until she was able to actually sleep.

_Word got around to the barflies and the Baptists._  
 _My mama’s phone started ringing off the hook._  
 _I can hear her now saying she ain’t gonna have it._  
 _Don’t matter how you feel it only matters how you look._

Musichetta didn’t really know how her mother found out, but she did. One morning, two days after the break up, she opened her door to find her mother at her door. Her mother, of course, was impeccably dressed; a business skirt with a white blouse and her long black hair in a bun at the nape of her neck. (Musichetta didn’t think she’d seen her mother look anything less than perfect.)

Her mother let out a horrified gasp when she saw Musichetta’s new haircut. “Oh my goodness, _what did you do to your hair?_ ”

Musichetta rubbed her forehead, not in the mood at all to deal with her. “Mami, why are you really here?”

Her mother pushed her way into her apartment, and Musichetta sighed. She didn’t want to talk; she wanted to recover from her hangover and maybe cry a bit more and then ignore everyone forever.

“Your sister said she hadn’t heard from you since Friday and your cousin’s husband called me and said something about a breakup?” her mother said, crossing her arms.

“Did he also happen to mention that Alex cheated on me?” Musichetta replied bitterly.

“Well, that’s awful dear, but, really, have you seen your hair? Honey, you’re a mess,” she said, before coming over and cupping Musichetta’s face. “I’m very sorry he cheated on you. I love you. But this isn’t healthy. Get cleaned up, it’ll make you feel better.” Her mother smiled, and Musichetta gave a small one in return.

“I’ll try, I promise.”

_Go and fix your makeup_  
 _Girl, it’s just a break_  
 _Run and hide your crazy_  
 _And start acting like a lady_  
 _‘Cause I raised you better_  
 _Gotta keep it together even when we fall apart_  
 _But this ain’t my mama’s broken heart_

As soon as her mother left (half an hour of promises and insisting that she’s fine), Musichetta groaned loudly and tugged on her hair.

Her mother thought it’d be that simple. “’Just get over it’ she says. ‘Get cleaned up, you’ll feel better’ she says. She doesn’t know anything!” Musichetta screams to herself and that’s when she thinks maybe she’s going a little bit insane.

But, really, her mother _doesn’t_ know what she’s talking about. She’d never gotten cheated on. (Musichetta had never gotten cheated on. She doesn’t like the feeling.) She never went through a nasty break up. If the stories were true, her mother and father met in school back in India and fell in love and everything was one hundred percent perfect.

Musichetta remembers watching her mother deal with her older sister when she was dumped. Her mother only let her cry for a while (it looked like she could cry for longer) before telling her to “chin up and smile” before handing her a makeup set and smiling at her softly. That was how all break ups in her family were dealt with: a short time of grieving, a makeup set, and a smile.

But this wasn’t her sister’s broken heart, it wasn’t her cousin’s broken heart, it wasn’t her mother’s broken heart.

It was Musichetta’s broken heart.

_Wish I could be just a little less dramatic_  
 _Like a Kennedy when Camelot went down in flames._  
 _Leave it to me to be holding the matches_  
 _When the fire truck shows up and there’s nobody else to blame._

After another bottle of wine and some god-awful ice cream flavors, Musichetta started imagining ways to get revenge.

Fire was always fun, she mused. She’d always had a fascination with fire; it was uncontrollable, wild, and unstable. (Maybe she saw a little bit of herself in the flames.) But there was the ever fun option of beating the shit out of his car. That would probably take a lot of her anger out.

“Okay, no, Musichetta, that’s illegal,” she told herself, but the idea was appealing.

Just a single match and some gasoline and his house could go up in flames. And with just a bat and a knife she could destroy his car and slash three of his tires—never the fourth; with the fourth, his insurance would pay for it.

_Powder your nose, paint your toes_  
 _Line your lips and keep ‘em closed_  
 _Cross your legs, dot your eyes_  
 _And never, ever let ‘em see you cry_

Musichetta decides not to go through with the revenge idea, and, really, it’s for the best.

She ends up calling her sister and they have a spa day. (Her sister compliments her on her hair.) They chat and she’s not thinking about Alex and she feels better. Not okay, not yet, but she’s getting there.

They go to a little sandwich shop down the corner and in the middle of their conversation, her sister turns to her and says, “You know, when you were little, I remember you saying you wished you could own a restaurant or a café or something like that. Well, you say you hate your boss, why not open one?”

Musichetta thinks about after they leave. She thinks about it after she says goodbye to her sister. She thinks about it at 4 in the morning when she can’t sleep. She thinks about it and thinks about and decides, yeah, why the hell not?

So she plans and she works overtime to save up more money and she gets recipes from her friends and her family and makes her own creations and she’s actually _happy_. She finds people who are looking for jobs, and she pretty much hires anyone, including another one of her cousins who she’s becoming strangely close to. She buys coffee machines and fancy tables and chairs and a goddamn _beautiful_ oven and she even gets the cheesy chalkboard to put outside.

She gets donations from friends of cheesy tourist pictures and she comes up with stupid names for drinks and food and she’s planning planning planning but she’s still searching for the right place to actually hold this café of hers. She looks all over the city and sometimes she gets frustrated because “this is the fifth one I’ve looked at, I just want one that isn’t infested with something.”

Musichetta finally finds a little place, and it’s by a college so that’ll help her profit, and she cries because the place is simply wonderful. And in less than 6 months after the break up—she doesn’t even think of Alex anymore—she finally opens it up.

“Le Café Musain”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is before Joly and Bossuet and everyone else, and I based this off of Miranda Lambert's "Mama's Broken Heart".
> 
> Also, please don't hate on Monica. You can hate on Alex all you want, but like I said, Monica didn't know anything of Musichetta and I didn't--and don't--intend her to be seen as the villain character. They both got cheated on. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed!!!!


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